


Until You

by I_m_cumberbatched



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock makes hasty assumptions, casefic, miscommunications
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-22
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-08 14:55:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 31,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3213272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_m_cumberbatched/pseuds/I_m_cumberbatched
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock had no idea what was wrong with him.  He and John had sat in this position before, with Sherlock’s head in John’s lap, countless times, on days when he was feeling particularly overwhelmed, John stroking his hair as he snuggled down, falling asleep.  But now, with the roles reversed, Sherlock couldn’t stop his heart from beating out of his chest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I've had this fic finished, gathering dust in my documents folder, for something like a year now, and figured, hey! Might as well post it since I'm too afraid to approach anyone about getting it beta'd. So, yes, it is not beta'd, and not brit-picked, either, so if you see any mistakes, feel free to let me know so I can fix them. Also, if anyone is interested in beta'ing this or anything else I've written, you're more than welcome to message me about it. 
> 
> That said, I do hope you enjoy it!

Sherlock watched over Lestrade’s shoulder as John was wrapped in an orange blanket.  John caught his eye and smirked as the paramedics bustled around him, rolling his eyes at all the fuss being made over him.  _Really_ , he seemed to be saying, _I just got a bit wet. Nothing to worry about_. The corner of Sherlock’s lip twitched.

They had just solved their first case since Sherlock had returned from the dead and, despite the small hiccup of John being tossed into the Thames in late November, it had gone swimmingly. He had been a bit worried about how well they would work together after being parted for so long, whether they would have to work to get back to the easy partnership they’d shared before Sherlock had left, but he needn’t have concerned himself over it. Just as they’d nearly immediately clicked on their first case together all those years ago – A Study in Pink, as John had ridiculously named it – so did they now. 

Sherlock sighed and leaned back against the police car he was standing near, crossing his arms and focusing his attention back on Lestrade, who’d taken a pause in his statement-gathering to take a “very important phone call, Sherlock, so just shut up for two minutes.”

 The DI hung up, rubbing his temples with a sigh. “Right,” he said, opening his eyes and staring at Sherlock with a set chin.  “So, you’re not to say anything to anyone about having been involved in this case, understand?”

 Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “Problem?”

 “Apparently, yes.”  He sighed again.  “Chief Superintendent doesn’t want word getting out that we’re using you again after . . . everything that happened.  Can’t risk the bad publicity.  Bollocks, if you ask me, but. . . .”  He shrugged, trailing off.

 “My name was cleared,” Sherlock pointed out. He caught a glimpse of John being given the okay over Lestrade’s shoulder.  John shrugged off the blanket, wrapping his heavy coat around himself, and began to weave through the officers going about their business to where Sherlock and Lestrade were conversing.

 “I’m aware of that.  But it’s not up to me,” Lestrade said.  “So we’re clear?  You and John had nothing to do with this?”

 But Sherlock didn’t answer.  Instead, his focus turned to John as he sighed, announcing his arrival.  “Well, I’m ready to get the hell out of these clothes,” he declared, pulling at his damp jeans. His breath misted in the cold air, his wet hair beginning to freeze.  He shivered slightly.  “A nice hot shower and a cup of tea’s just what I need.”

 Sherlock suddenly smiled.  “Well, you heard the man, Lestrade,” he said brightly. “We’ll be on our way, then, if that’s all you need.” 

 He steered John away as Lestrade shouted, “Sherlock, wait!  What about –”

 Sherlock waved his hand behind him dismissively. “Yes, yes, of course,” he called back. “So,” he said, hailing a taxi and ignoring John’s questioning look.  “Chinese?”


	2. Chapter 1

A few days after the case that led to John’s unplanned dip in the Thames, Sherlock wandered into the living room at 9:46 a.m. and was mildly surprised to see that John wasn’t already awake. He frowned; usually John was up much earlier than he was.  But, he supposed, it wasn’t unheard of for him to have a bit of a lie-in.  And John had looked very tired when he went to bed last night.

Sherlock spent a few hours finishing up a few small experiments he’d begun the day before, carefully cataloging his results. By 12:02, John still hadn’t come down. Sherlock stared up at the ceiling, wondering just what he was doing up there.

He collapsed on the couch, switching on the telly and lazily flipping through channels until he landed on an old cartoon rerun he’d used to watch when he was a child.  He settled into the couch on his side, mindlessly taking in the bright colors and sounds he’d always liked.  They’d always done wonders to stimulate his mind.

But when, two hours later, John still hadn’t come down, Sherlock sat bolt upright, switching off the TV.  His dressing gown hung off his lanky form as he stood slowly, staring at the staircase leading up to John’s room.  Perhaps, he should check on him . . . just to make sure he hadn’t been kidnapped or something, as was wont to happen.  Though Sherlock would certainly have already noticed that something was amiss in such a case.  But. . . . Better safe than sorry.

He ascended the staircase slowly, knocking on John’s closed door.  “John?” No answer.

He pushed the door open.  The curtains were drawn and the room was dark, the only light coming in from the open door behind him.  Crumpled tissues littered the room, piled on the floor and on the bed. Blankets were heaped on the middle of the bed, covering what must be Sherlock’s elusive flatmate.

Indeed, the heap began to stir at the change in lighting, and a voice croaked out, “Sherlock?” from the middle of it. John pulled the blankets back away from his face and squinted up at him.

“You’re ill,” Sherlock said, still standing in the doorway.

John chuckled weakly.  “Good deduction,” he said.  “You’re form is spot on today.”  He coughed a few times, then groaned, sniffling. “Could you. . . ?” He trailed off and shook his head. “Never mind.”  He groaned again, moving to push the blankets off and sit up. “I’ll do it.”

Sherlock was at his side in a flash, pushing him back down.  “What do you need?”

John waved his hand weakly at Sherlock. “It’s fine.  I can do it.”

“John.”  Sherlock attempted to adopt the stern expression John always used to get him to eat something.  And, he thought, he must have done a fairly good job of it, too, because John sank back down into the pillows at the expression, looking chagrined.  “What do you need?”

“Cold medicine.” 

Sherlock nodded, getting up to fetch it.

“It’s in the –”

“Medicine cabinet in the downstairs bathroom, yes. I do know where that is, thank you.” He shot a sardonic look over his shoulder and John nodded.

“Maybe some tea, too, please?” John asked hesitantly, looking up at him hopefully.

Sherlock simply nodded and left. 

* * *

 

Ten minutes later, Sherlock was back upstairs, dumping the armload of items he had collected onto John’s bed. He carefully set the mug of steaming tea on John’s bedside table and grabbed the medicine as John stared down at all the things Sherlock had brought up with him.  Some of them made sense, like John’s laptop and the latest book he’d been reading, but others. . . .  They had no reason to be brought up here.

“What’s all this?”  He picked up a thick book, leafing through it.  “A manual for the mechanics of motorcycles?” He tossed that back onto the bed and lifted up another.  His eyebrows rose as he read the cover.  “‘Bees, Wasps, and Ants: The Indispensable Role of Hymenoptera in Gardens.’ Seriously?”

Sherlock sniffed as he carefully poured out the indicated dosage for adults into the small plastic measuring cup that came with the bottle.  “You’d be surprised how often that book has come in handy.” He handed the medicine over to John and continued, “Insects have an immense role in the development of plant life in different regions.  It helps to know as much as I can about how, in order to effectively track criminals. Drink,” he ordered, as John stared at him in disbelief.

John obeyed immediately, wrinkling his nose at the taste.  “If you say so,” John said.  “But why did you bring all this up here?”

“Is it not true that friends attend to each other’s needs, especially in times of sickness?”

John yawned widely as he protested, “Yes, but –”

“There you have it, then,” Sherlock said, settling himself down in an armchair in the corner of John’s room. “I will stay here to … attend to your needs.”

“But, won’t it be dull for you?” John asked, through another yawn.  “I’m probably just going to sleep the day away.”

Sherlock shrugged.  “I’m sure I’ll manage to keep myself entertained.”

John sighed, settling back into his blankets. “Fine,” he said, his eyes drifting shut. “Do whatever you like.” 

* * *

At some point in the middle of the night, Sherlock was jerked awake by a particularly loud thud from somewhere in the room. He jumped to his feet, looking around wildly for the source of the noise, his heart racing.  His eyes landed on the motorcycle manual, which must have slid off the bed to fall onto the floor.

Sherlock sighed, about to settle back into the armchair, when John suddenly gave a shout from the bed, his arm thrashing out. Sherlock froze, not sure what to do. He’d never been good at dealing with his own emotions, let alone anyone else’s.  But John was clearly in the midst of a particularly horrible nightmare and needed to be calmed down before he injured himself.

He climbed onto the empty half of John’s bed, grasping at his waving arms.  “John.” He pressed a hand against the side of John’s head.  John’ skin was burning, sweat hanging off his hair in beads.  “John, wake up.”  There was an edge of panic in Sherlock’s voice now.  “ _John_.”  He didn’t know how to deal with this.  He’d never had to take care of anyone but himself before, and he’d never even done _that_ well. And he’d certainly never had to comfort anyone before.

Sherlock panicked, leaning over John to try to stop him from writhing, but that only seemed to make things worse. He let go, sitting back, trying to think this through.  Not logically, not like he normally would.  No, he closed his eyes and frantically wondered _what would John do_?  And suddenly, he knew. He knew, because John had done it to him before.  Under different circumstances, yes, but still, the concept of comfort was the same.

He squirmed under the covers and scooted in to John, curling himself around his back and avoiding the thrashing limbs as best he could. He wrapped one of his arms around John’s waist, pulling him closer.  Immediately, he could feel the action calming John, and he smiled triumphantly. The writhing had finally stopped, but he could still feel John trembling, still feel the waves of fear and pain oozing out of him.  Sherlock’s free hand drifted up to John’s hair and he slowly threaded his fingers through it, massaging his scalp gently. 

“It’s all right,” he whispered, echoing John’s own words of comfort back to him.  “I’m here now. I’m here.”

And suddenly John relaxed back into him. The shaking stopped, his breathing slowed, and he returned to a non-harmful state of REM sleep, still dreaming, but no longer having a nightmare.  Sherlock sighed in relief.  He began to pull away, but John made a small noise of protest in his sleep, clasping on to Sherlock’s arm and snuggling back into his chest.

Sherlock stiffened.  John obviously wasn’t going to let him go so easily, but Sherlock had never liked sharing his sleeping space with anyone. He couldn’t even remember the last time he _did_.  He tried to pull away again, but John made that noise again, that little mumble of dissent, and Sherlock gave in, settling into the new sleeping arrangements. 

* * *

It took him a much shorter time than he expected to drift off.

He woke early the next morning to an extremely peculiar predicament.  Apparently, sometime in the night, his body became keenly aware of the change in sleeping arrangements and reacted accordingly to the addition of another body beside it, awakening an appendage he’d spent the last 20 years ignoring. He shifted uncomfortably, but this only succeeded in causing said appendage to rub against the back of John’s thigh, sending a surprising wave of pleasure shooting through Sherlock’s body. He bit his lip, stifling a moan, and concentrated all his brainpower on getting out of this situation.

A quick analysis of John’s breathing rate assured Sherlock that he was still asleep, though Sherlock couldn’t see how he could be comfortable with such an insistent appendage poking into the back of his thigh.  Sherlock sighed, smoothly extricating his arm from John’s light grip on it.  He scooted away as John mumbled something, rolling over onto his back and settling back into the blankets.

Success!  Sherlock grabbed a few of the things he’d brought up and retreated downstairs, dumping the books onto the couch and heading immediately for the shower.

* * *

A few hours later, Sherlock was sprawled out on the couch, trying to decide if he should go back upstairs and check on John. However, it was exceedingly difficult to come to a decision when something seemed to have gone wrong with the wiring in his mind.  Thoughts of John were, without fail and despite his repeated attempts to delete it, leading to the memory of that morning: waking up with an erection for the first time in nearly two decades.  And these thoughts inevitably led to others. . . . 

Like, for example, what might have happened if John _had_ woken up. In Sherlock’s mind, he sees John turn over in bed, sees himself look away, ashamed and embarrassed. But John just smiles sleepily and says, “It’s okay.  Nothing to be ashamed about.” Sherlock looks back up at him, his gaze suddenly flicking to John’s mouth, and there’s no other invitation needed. Somehow, suddenly, they’re kissing and John is reaching down to the waistband of Sherlock’s. . . .

He shook his head and the image vanished, as if he’d shaken away a picture on an Etch A Sketch.  For all he knew, John was lying up there in a pool of his own misery, lacking the energy to even roll out of bed or shout down to Sherlock. And here he was, caught in an endless loop of inappropriate thoughts, unable to get rid of them.

He restarted the process.

Search: How often does one need to check on an ill flatmate?

            Re: John Watson

                    -Symptoms: Congestion, cough, sore throat, headache, body aches, drowsiness.

            Drowsiness . . . Redirected – See: _sleep_

                        Sleep: Loading memory. . . .

                        _Hair in my face.  Smells like . . . melon . . . dew . . . soap. . . ._

_Soft skin beneath my hand.  My body curved around another, smaller, but stronger._

_Comfortable._

_Feels nice._

_Feels. . . ._

Error. . . . Unknown association.

            Redirected – Uploading daydream. . . .

_John’s hand slips under my pajama trousers.  His scent is all around me, surrounding me.  I feel as if I may drown in it.  I strain towards him.  His lips curl into a smile against mine and he sighs into my mouth.  His breath is sweet . . . tastes like tea. I want to drink it in, as much as I can. His hand wraps around me and it feels –_

ERROR. . . . UPLOAD INTERRUPTED

Sherlock groaned and turned over onto his side. What was wrong with him? Something must have rewired the associations in his stored memory.  This was going to take hours to sort out.  And he really should go check on John. . . .

Before he could push himself up, he heard footsteps dragging on the stairs.  He sat up, his head twisting around to see John wandering down the stairs, wrapped tightly in blankets, and looking completely miserable.

“John!  What are you doing?” Sherlock barked.  “You should be in bed.”

John dumped his blankets down next to Sherlock, untangling himself from the many layers.  “I can’t lay up there any more.  I need a change of scene,” he said grumpily.  But Sherlock’s attention was immediately drawn to the increased hoarseness of his voice compared to yesterday.  “And a quick wash.”  Without waiting for Sherlock to say anything, he headed off down the hall to the bathroom.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and got up, heading into the kitchen to make some tea.  As he was waiting for the kettle to boil, John emerged from the bathroom, looking a bit fresher. He’d combed his hair, and it looked like he’d brushed his teeth and washed his face.  He wrapped himself back up in the blankets and came to join Sherlock in the kitchen, practically falling into one of the chairs at the table.

“Did you eat anything yesterday?” he asked. Sherlock simply shrugged and John sighed.  He hoisted himself out of the chair and began rummaging through one of the cabinets, pulling out jam and a new bag of bread. 

Sherlock intercepted him as he tried to slip behind him to get the toaster.  “Go lay down,” he said, pulling the jam and bread from John’s hands.  “Despite what everyone thinks, I _am_ capable of toasting a few slices of bread.”

It was a testament to how horrible John must have felt when he simply nodded without arguing and went to stretch out on the couch. “Make some for yourself, too,” he called wearily before launching into a fit of coughing.

Sherlock pulled the kettle off as it started to wail and poured the steaming water into two mugs, tea bags already inside. He left the tea to steep, heading into the bathroom to rummage through the cabinet.  He pulled out a bottle of cough medicine and came back out, pouring out the correct measurement and presenting it to John, who sat up, took, and swallowed it without protest. 

Sherlock headed back into the kitchen to prepare the toast.  “You know, for a doctor, you’re quite lax when it comes to taking care of your own illness,” he observed, emerging from the kitchen again, carrying two steaming mugs. He handed one to John and set the other on the coffee table.

John smiled and inhaled deeply, allowing the herbs to clear his sinuses, before taking a drink.  “I’ve just always been like that, I guess,” he answered, shrugging. “People always say doctors make the worst patients, and in my case it’s true.  I just don’t draw attention to it if I don’t have to. Just would rather lie there and . . . wallow in self-pity, I suppose.”

“Hm.”  Sherlock slipped back into the kitchen to finish up the toast. When he came out again, John had curled up on his side, only the top half of his head poking out of the blankets. Sherlock set both plates on the coffee table and made to settle into his armchair, but John slowly shifted around.

“Here,” he said, pushing himself up to make a Sherlock-sized space next to him on the couch and patting it invitingly.

Sherlock quickly diverted his path and made himself comfortable next to John, who’d picked up his plate and was chewing contentedly on a jam-slathered piece of toast.  He smiled as Sherlock picked up his own plate and started eating, only to stop when his attention was drawn to a sliver of jam at the corner of John’s mouth.  He couldn’t look away; it had somehow managed to capture his complete attention. His mouth began to water and his cheeks flushed.  Suddenly, Sherlock had the overwhelming urge to lean over and lick it away. A strangled noise escaped him at that thought, which he disguised by clearing his throat when John looked at him strangely.

“Swallowed funny,” he said, taking a large swig of tea and coughing slightly.  “Telly?”

* * *

His hands were starting to go numb. He shifted slightly, trying to take some of the pressure off them, and John wriggled a bit, settling his head more comfortably in Sherlock’s lap.

Sherlock had no idea what was wrong with him. He and John had sat in this position before, with Sherlock’s head in John’s lap, countless times, on days when he was feeling particularly overwhelmed, John stroking his hair as he snuggled down, falling asleep.  But now, with the roles reversed, Sherlock couldn’t stop his heart from beating out of his chest. He was surprised John couldn’t hear it, actually.

Sherlock pulled his hands out from under his thighs, clenching and unclenching his fingers to get the blood flow working again. But now he didn’t know where to put them.  One could rest on the arm of the couch, certainly, but where could the other one go that didn’t involve touching John somewhere?  Because he hadn’t had time to reorganize his mind palace, and touching John was inevitably leading to thoughts of this morning, and if that happened. . . . Well, with the location of John’s head, this time he would certainly notice.

Sherlock finally settled for stretching his arm out along the back of the couch.  Not normally a comfortable position for him, but under the circumstances, it would have to suffice.  Sherlock shifted again, trying to make himself more comfortable.

He sighed.  John had never seemed to have trouble with this . . . closeness. With this odd intimacy that their relationship seemed to have.  Maybe it was because John was absolutely “not gay,” as he was always so fond of telling everyone.  So there was no inkling of an attraction to Sherlock, and no danger of one ever growing.

Is that what was happening?  Was Sherlock gay?  He dismissed the idea almost immediately.  He hated labels and, besides, he’d never really been _attracted_ to anyone, and from what he understood, wasn’t that sort of a necessity in being gay? 

No, he’d never shown any real sexual desire towards _anyone_ , from _either_ sex.  Yes, there were a few times at university, under the influence of alcohol or drugs, that he participated in sexual activities – despite what his brother and Moriarty thought – but that was more due to him being lonely and them being . . . well, _there_.  And him being high as a kite, of course.

But this was new.  This was different.  He didn’t know what it was. Could it be attraction? Sherlock shook his head, making a note in his mental log of experiments and observations to gather more data. It was impossible to reach a conclusion based on his unfortunately limited experience in this area. He would have to run a few experiments, and possibly gather outside opinions on that matter.

John sighed, the sound one of comfort and complete contentedness, as his arm swept around Sherlock’s waist. Sherlock smiled and, without thinking, dropped his hand to John’s short hair, brushing against it.

Well, data collection could wait. Right now, John needed him.


	3. Chapter 2

For the first time in four days, John woke up with a clear nose.  He stretched, breathing in with ease, and smiled, sitting up.  The smile quickly dropped as he stared around at the disaster that his room had become.  Tissues were thrown everywhere, covering the floor.  Mugs half-full of old tea were piled on his nightstand.  Dirty clothes were strewn about carelessly. He must have been really out of it, to not realize the state of the mess.  Usually, he tried to keep his room quite tidy.  It was the one place he even _could_ keep clean, since he had absolutely no jurisdiction over the kitchen and living room.

John sighed, gathering several of the mugs and heading downstairs.  _Without blankets_ , he couldn’t help thinking with a smile. There was no sign of Sherlock in the living room or the kitchen, but the sound of the shower running made it obvious where he was.  Dishes would have to wait, then.  John dumped the mugs into the sink that was already overflowing with dirty dishes and headed back upstairs with a plastic bag to gather up all the tissues.

When he came back downstairs, arms laden with the rest of the mugs, Sherlock was lounging across the couch, fully dressed, his hair still wet.  When he saw John, he bounded to his feet.

“John!”  His eyes roved up and down John’s form, taking in every detail. “You’re feeling better.”

“Much, thanks,” John said, starting in on the dishes.

Apparently satisfied with John’s recovery and therefore finished in his role as caretaker, Sherlock draped himself back across the couch, his long limbs spread out haphazardly.  John rolled his eyes, smiling at the return of normalcy to Baker Street. 

John had been quite shocked at Sherlock’s insistence on taking care of him.  He’d expected Sherlock to just nod and go back to whatever he was doing, perhaps even demand that John get up and make him his usual afternoon tea. John had sighed in acceptance, ready to exert all his remaining energy in fulfilling the unspoken duties that came with being Sherlock’s flatmate, but Sherlock had immediately switched roles, fetching anything John wanted, providing company, and making – John had to admit – a damn good cuppa.

Perhaps it was due to some residual guilt Sherlock felt from faking his death?  But John had long since forgiven him for that, after the initial anger and sense of betrayal.

John sighed.  Well, whatever it was, the reason didn’t seem relevant. Who knew?  Perhaps taking care of sick flatmates was another of Sherlock’s idiosyncrasies.  At any rate, it seemed to have ended.

“John.”

He jumped, splashing his front with water from the sink.  Sherlock’s voice had come from just behind him.  He hadn’t even heard the man move.  “Bloody hell,” he muttered, his heart racing.  He looked back to see Sherlock hovering over him closely, a curious expression on his face.  “Something I can help you with?”  He grabbed a towel and began patting the water splashes on his shirt dry.

“John, I want to know. . . .” He paused, a small furrow in his brow, then plunged onward.  “What does attraction feel like?”

John’s eyebrows shot up.  “ _Attraction_?” he repeated.  He turned around, leaning against the counter.  Clearly, this was going to be a discussion requiring his full attention. “As in, to another person?”

“Yes, of course,” he said, frowning. “What else would I mean?”

John laughed shortly, more out of disbelief than anything.  He tossed the towel behind him, gripping the edge of the counter with his hands. “I don’t know. It’s just an odd question, even from you.”  He tilted his head, considering.  “ _Especially_ from you.  Why do you want to know?”

Sherlock sighed and stomped away, John’s head turning to follow as Sherlock paced around the kitchen table. “Attraction is a motivator of human behavior, correct?”  He stopped and turned to take in John’s nod, then resumed his pacing.  “A particularly strong one, if I’m not mistaken. But my knowledge in this area is greatly lacking.  As it may one day be relevant to a case, I find I must remedy the situation.  So.”  He stopped again, somehow in the same position he’d started in in front of John. “What does it feel like?”

John swallowed, trying to quell the butterflies that had erupted in his stomach.  Really, he chided himself, this didn’t seem to have anything to do with _him_.  And how could it?  Since the first day he’d met Sherlock, he’d been stuffing the growing attraction he felt for him into a tiny box, shoving that box in a chest, locking it, and hiding it up in the attic of his mind with a sign hanging over it that said “Absolutely, seriously, do not disturb.  Keep out.  Dangerous chemicals inside.” But if Sherlock just wanted to know, from a professional, scientific point of view. . . .  He really didn’t have to worry, then.

“Well, surely you must know the physiological effects,” he answered, trying to stop his voice from squeaking. _Distance yourself_ , he thought.  _You’re a doctor, for God’s sake. And a soldier. Utilize that emotional detachment!_ “Elevated heart rate. Dilated pupils.” He cleared his throat again. “Sexual arousal.”

“John, spare me.  You and I both know that I’m well aware of the chemistry involved with it.”

“Right,” he said, suddenly feeling his face heat up as Sherlock leaned in closer.  John sidestepped around him and moved around the table, sitting down. After a moment, Sherlock followed suit, sitting across from him and steepling his fingers under his chin. He raised his eyebrows in invitation to continue.

“So, attraction. . . .”  He took a deep breath.  “First of all, you have to know, it’s different for everybody. I mean, the chemistry is all the same, of course, but everyone responds to it differently, and their responses change with the situation.  A man could be only mildly attracted to a woman he meets in a pub, but have a one night stand with her.  And the same man could be incredibly attracted to a colleague, but never act on it because it would be inappropriate.”

Sherlock cocked his head at that. “You asked out that woman, Sarah, even though she was your boss.”

John pressed his lips together, wondering how to explain _that_ one. He’d liked Sarah, he really had. As a friend.  The entire abysmal three months they’d spent together, he’d only been trying to take his mind off Sherlock, and both he and Sarah had known it. “Yes, I did,” he finally said. “And that didn’t end well, did it?” He sighed.  “Like I said, different people, different situations. But, if you still want to know. . . .”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”  John looked down at the table, clasping his hands together tightly. What he was about to do wasn’t smart. It was nowhere close to being a good idea.  It could ruin all the work he’d done to squash these feelings once and for all.  But he was going to do it anyway.

“For me, it’s like being a kid.” He looked back up. “When you were a kid, was there ever anything you really wanted?  A toy or. . . .” He raised his eyebrows at Sherlock, considering just _who_ he was talking to.  “I don’t know, a severed hand to study, or something?  Something that you wanted _so badly_ , but no one would ever get it for you.”  Sherlock nodded. “It’s like that. You want it, and you think about it, until suddenly it’s all you can think about.”

Sherlock leaned in, watching his face intently. John’s breath suddenly caught in his throat, the desire to close the distance between them suddenly overwhelming. No, this hadn’t been a good idea at all.

He sat back reluctantly.  “That’s what it’s like for me,” he continued, squeezing his fingers together tightly.  “When I’m near . . .” – he looked away staring out the window – “. . . that person, it’s hard to concentrate, because all I can think about is how much I want them. I forget to breathe, and I don’t want to blink, because what if they disappear when I close my eyes? Everything about them pulls me in, and even their faults and annoying habits are endearing, to a point. I–” 

He froze, realizing that he was no longer describing just an attraction.  He shook his head to clear it, trying to stuff all those feelings – which seemed to have grown exponentially since the last time he let them out, at Sherlock’s grave, three years ago – back into their box, in the chest, in the attic.

“No, just, you know what?  Ignore all that.  I’m still not thinking straight from the cold, so just . . . ignore it. Delete it, whatever.”

He looked back at Sherlock, who had the most peculiar expression on his face, one that John had never seen him use before and couldn’t name.  The expression cleared almost immediately, and the familiar bored expression took its place.

“That was extraordinarily helpful, John, thank you. You should go shower. Lestrade’s asked us to come in this afternoon.”

John nodded and got up, but at the threshold to the kitchen stopped and turned back around.  “Seriously, Sherlock.  All that stuff I said. Just forget about it. It’s stupid.”

“John it was very informative,” he insisted. “I’m not going to just ‘ignore it,’ as you keep insisting I do.”  John groaned, inwardly kicking himself.  “And besides, I’ve never deleted _anything_ involving you, intelligent or otherwise.  I’m not about to start now.”

John’s eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to ask. . . .  Well, he didn’t know what, exactly.  Sherlock had the peculiar tendency to either cover up any emotional feelings he had or state them as bluntly as he could, as if they were just another deduction he’d made. In this instance, he couldn’t tell if this was one of those times, or if Sherlock had simply been stating a fact, and it hadn’t meant anything.  Still, either way, it meant that Sherlock regarded him as important. He was Necessary Information. In John’s opinion, it was one of the highest compliments he could ever receive.

He shut his mouth, deciding to just let it go, and retreated to the bathroom.

* * *

“ _Bloody fucking hell_!” John heard Lestrade shout.  He dropped the shoe he’d been clutching in his hand and raced out of the alleyway Sherlock had sent him to in order search for the victim’s trainers. “Just what the _fuck_ do you think you’re _doing_ , Sherlock?”  John pushed past police officers to where he’d left Sherlock and Lestrade by the body.

A conglomeration of officers were gathered around the commotion, some looking amused, others surprised, a few looking completely appalled, and most looking like they didn’t know what to think. He pushed his way through to see Sherlock trapped in a headlock, looking completely annoyed, by Lestrade, who looked as though he wanted to rip Sherlock’s arms off.

“What’s going on?” John asked. “What did he do this time?”

Lestrade glared around at the officers around them, all of whom looked extremely interested to see how this would play out. “Oi, don’t you lot have something to be doing?” he barked, and they immediately scattered.

Lestrade released Sherlock roughly, pushing him over to John.  “Your flatmate, here,” he said pointing accusatorily, “just tried to fucking _kiss_ me.”

John’s eyebrows shot up.  “What, _seriously_?”

He looked at Sherlock, who was starting to look a little embarrassed, but mostly just irritated.  “I told you, it was an _experiment_.”

“What, to see how close you could bloody get before I broke your arm?” Lestrade snapped, but his temper seemed to have started to drop.  He clenched his hands and took a few deep breaths.  “All right, you’d better go.  You’ve given us enough to go on.”

Sherlock’s face dropped into a childish pout. “But–”

“ _Sherlock_ ,” John muttered, and he fell silent.  “Found one of the trainers in the bin over there.”  He pointed behind him to the alley.  “Reckon the other one’s still in there somewhere.” He pushed Sherlock away with a look that clearly said, _we’ll discuss this later_. “Go grab a cab, Sherlock.”

When Sherlock had finally stomped away, John turned to Lestrade apologetically.  “Sorry about that.  He’s been acting weird all day.”  He frowned, then corrected, “All week, actually.  Don’t know what’s got into him.”

Lestrade sighed, rubbing his forehead with his hand. “It’s fine.  Just . . . was weird.”

“Tell me about it,” John muttered. He gave a wave and headed to where Sherlock was waiting impatiently with a cab.

When he saw John approaching, he got in, John climbing in after him.  As soon as the cab pulled away, John turned on Sherlock.  “What the _hell_ were you thinking?”

Sherlock looked slightly surprised at the outburst. “It was an experiment, John,” he said, as if it was obvious.  “Which I told Lestrade – and you – multiple times.”

“An experiment.  Care to elaborate on that?”

Sherlock shrugged.  “I was merely trying to determine if I was attracted to him.”

John spluttered.  “Sorry?”

“Do I really need to repeat myself? Lestrade has been a friend for nearly 9 years.  He was the one who helped me move past my addictions.  I feel . . . gratitude to him.  I simply wanted to know if it was anything more.” 

John stared at Sherlock in disbelief and Sherlock’s eyebrows raised.  “Have I done something wrong?”

“Sherlock!”  John shook his head.  “You can’t just go around kissing anyone you might be attracted to! It doesn’t work that way! Especially if you don’t know if you are.” 

John was . . . very pissed.  He tried to tell himself it was because of Sherlock’s complete ignorance in all social interactions.  That he was sick of having to be his translator and babysitter. That it had nothing at all to do with the jealousy sweeping over him.

Sherlock huffed and crossed his arms crankily. “Well, I don’t know how this works, John.  I’ve never dealt with these messy relationships before, and I’ve only just realized how inadequate your description was.”

“You’ve never. . . .  You’ve never been attracted to anyone before? Ever?”

He shrugged.  “I don’t know.  I don’t think so. If I have, I never realized it.” He turned a piercing gaze to John. “I’m friends with both you and Lestrade, and yet my feelings for you are different than my feelings for him.” His voice dropped to a growl of frustration. “I don’t understand it,” he said turning to stare out the window.

John blinked, his brow furrowing and his mouth dropping open slightly.  “Sherlock, are you. . . .”  He shook his head. This was _mad_. “Are you saying you might be attracted to . . . to _me_?”

He swallowed as Sherlock turned his gaze back to John, who sucked in a breath.  Sherlock was staring at him with the same intensity that he used on every case, every victim, every crime scene.  His eyes bored into John’s, scrutinizing him, and John’s face flushed.  He wanted to turn away, break the gaze, but he couldn’t. He was trapped, like a deer caught in the headlights. 

“Kiss me, John.”


	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Amincar for her awesome betaing. It's amazing how much better this sounds just from your suggestions!

“But why not?” Sherlock whined again as he followed John up the stairs to their flat.  “You’re being unreasonable.”

“Unreasonable?  Oh, _I’m_ being unreasonable?” John threw the door to the kitchen open and headed straight for the kettle.  “I’m not the one who wants my flatmate to kiss me, just to see if I _might_ _possibly_ be attracted to him.  Do you really not see a problem with this?”

Sherlock followed him, shutting the door behind him and placing his hands on the table, leaning forward. “What’s the problem? You kiss me, I see if I’m attracted to you, end of story.  I know you want to.”

There was a clatter as John dropped the kettle, and water splashed everywhere.  “Sorry, _what_?”

“Oh, please.  I could tell you that your sister was an alcoholic just by your phone, and you think I don’t know what you were thinking about in the cab?  I’m insulted, John.”

He heard John heave a sigh, his ears slightly pink as he dried the counters, then refilled the kettle.  “Sherlock, I’m not going to kiss you,” he said.

Sherlock pulled out the chair he’d been standing over and plopped down into it.  “ _Jooooohn_ ,” he whined. “Please?”

John put the kettle on and sat down across from Sherlock.  He was silent for a while, just staring at him, then finally asked, “Why do you think you’re attracted to me?”  Sherlock pursed his lips, uncomfortable with the question.  “Come on, Sherlock.  You can’t expect me to do this if you don’t give me proof that you want me to.”

Sherlock sighed.  This was harder than he’d expected it to be.  He didn’t want to have to talk about this.  Why couldn’t John just _do_ it, just to see?  Talking about it was . . . awkward.  Embarrassing. John nodded at him, waiting expectantly, and he sighed.  “The other night, when you were sick.  The first night,” he clarified.  “You had a nightmare. I . . . comforted you. The same way you did for me, when. . . . You know.”

“When you nearly overdosed, you mean?” he clarified with a stern look.

Sherlock nodded.  Clearly, John was still upset about that. “Yes, like that. When you had calmed down, I tried to leave, but you wouldn’t let me go, so . . . I stayed.  And we slept like that.  And . . . it was nice,” he finished, his cheeks reddening slightly at the memory of waking up that morning.  He certainly wasn’t going to tell John about the surprising erection.

John raised his eyebrows, though Sherlock could see a slight paleness to his cheeks.  “That’s it?”

“Since then I’ve been . . . thinking.”

“That’s _all_ you do.”

“About you.”

Silence stretched between them at the implication of his words.  Sherlock noted the slight flush to John’s cheeks, the growing heat in his gaze.  Perhaps he wasn’t as “absolutely not gay” as he thought he was.

They both jumped as the kettle went off. John got up and prepared two mugs, setting them down on the table in front of them and sitting back down. After he took a good, long swig of his own, he continued.  “You’ve been thinking about me.  About what?”

“About. . . .”  Sherlock’s eyes flicked down to the corner of John’s mouth, where the jam had clung to it the next morning.  He swallowed, remembering the urge to lick it away. “Jam.” 

“Jam.”

“And. . . .  And licking you.”

John choked on the sip of tea he’d been taking. “ _Licking_ me?” he spluttered.  “You’ve been thinking about _licking_ me?”

Sherlock was just as surprised as John was. He’d never thought that licking another person would ever be something he found desirable, but there was just something about John.  He couldn’t stop thinking about it.  “I want to know what you taste like.  Your neck is particularly compelling.  Also your chest, hands, back, possibly your toes, and . . . elsewhere.”

Sherlock watched with fascination as John’s face flushed bright red.  John’s eyes flicked to the liquor cabinet, but then he seemed to decide that he was going to need his wits about him for the rest of the conversation.  “Did you just tell me that you want to give me a blowjob?” Sherlock had to hand it to him: John was remarkably skilled at keeping his voice steady under strange circumstances, and he was certainly much better at all of this than Sherlock was turning out to be.

Sherlock nodded.  “Yes, I think I must have.”  He wrinkled his nose.  “Odd.” He looked at John for confirmation. “Is that odd?”

“Well, I never expected _you_ to say that to _me_.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair.  “But it’s sounding more and more like your hypothesis is right.  So this is why you asked me this morning?  About attraction, I mean.”

Sherlock sighed.  They were finally on the same page.  “Obviously.”

John nodded.  “Okay, then, Sherlock.  Tell me. If you really are, which it seems is the case, then what do you want from me?”

Maybe not quite on the same page. Sherlock frowned. He hadn’t really thought this far ahead. Up to this point, he’d been so concerned with whether or not he actually _was_ attracted to John, he hadn’t even begun to consider what he actually _wanted_.  It seemed that there was a desire for sex, but beyond that, he wasn’t sure what else this new attraction called for.  “I liked sleeping with you,” he said, surprising himself. He hadn’t even realized how much he _had_ liked it: the closeness, the warmth, the intimacy.  They had all been things he’d shunned, and now to admit that he’d liked a taste of them. . . . It was novel.

“Okay,” John said, nodding.

“And. . . .”  He thought back to the last week.  “I liked when you laid on me the next day, with your head in my lap. And I like lying with my head in your lap.  It feels nice.”

John nodded again.  “Is that all?”

“Yes. . . .  Oh! I do want to lick you.”

“Yes, I think we’ve established that,” John said, his face reddening again.

“Beyond that, I don’t know, John,” Sherlock said, grimacing.  He hated not knowing.

“So, a relationship. . . ?” 

Sherlock shrugged.

“Because that’s what it’s starting to sound like you want, Sherlock.  Is that it? You want a relationship with me? You want to be my . . . my _boyfriend_?”

“I don’t know, John!” Sherlock exclaimed. He propelled himself to his feet and began pacing.  “I don’t know! I don’t know what a _relationship_ entails.  I’ve never had one.  I’ve never wanted one.”  He stopped in front of his chair, his hands gripping the back of it tightly, his knuckles turning white. “All I know is I want to touch you, and sleep with you, and wake up with you, and chase killers with you, and eat Chinese take-out with you, and watch those stupid Bond movies you keep insisting I need to see, and _yes_ , John, I want to kiss you and I want you to kiss me, and I want you to really and truly be _mine_ and no one else’s.” He frowned; that was one more deduction than he had been expecting.  It was astounding not only that he wanted these things, but _how much_ he wanted them.

John’s eyes were wide as he looked up at the pained expression that Sherlock wore.  “Sherlock, that’s a relationship.”

Sherlock made a disgusted face at the term. Was that really what he wanted? A normal, everyday relationship, something he’d been openly and vocally abusive toward all of his adult life, as well as most of his teenage years?  He shook his head, unwilling to admit to it.  But now that he was thinking about it – really thinking – what he’d told John was true.  He wanted all those things, and more.  But what if John didn’t want them back?  He was, as he was so fond of reminding everyone, straight.  Yes, he’d wanted to kiss Sherlock back in the cab, but perhaps that had more to do with the intensity of Sherlock’s gaze and the close quarters, as well as John’s temper running high.  He couldn’t have been thinking straight.  Sherlock was all too aware of what could happen when passions ran high. After all, he made a living – sort of – off of it.  In fact, since that awkward conversation in Angelo’s on their first case together, John hadn’t shown even the slightest inkling of interest in Sherlock – in _that way_ – that he could see.

“John, how do you feel about me?” he asked.

John shook his head.  “No, don’t bring my feelings into this.  Take that variable out of the equation.  All that matters right now is how _you_ feel.  And I know you don’t like to talk about it, but you need to.  You can take all the time you need.  You don’t have to answer me right now, if you need to think about it. But I want – I _deserve_ – your honest answer.  Do you want a relationship with me?”

Sherlock sighed, pacing out of the room and towards the closest window in the living room.  He stared out at the city, at the people going about their business with their boring jobs and friends and messy little love lives. Was this what he wanted? He wanted _John_ , that much had already been established.  Perhaps, if he just took the label off it, it would be easier to determine.

Yes, that made everything simpler. He didn’t want a _relationship_.  He wanted closeness.  Intimacy. Sex.  Affection.  Everything he’d gone without and had tried to convince himself he didn’t want, because there was no one willing to give it to him.  Well, here was someone who had already given him affection and closeness, and asking him if he wanted all the rest to boot.  He would be an idiot to refuse.

His decision made, he moved back to the kitchen, standing in the doorway.  John watched him closely from the table, almost seeming to be holding his breath.

“Yes.”

* * *

John had run out fairly quickly after Sherlock’s declaration, saying that he needed air and space to think. Despite the coldness of the early December air, he found himself in Regent’s Park sitting on a swing in one of the deserted children’s areas.  His feet slowly pushed him back and forth, trailing lightly on the ground. He shoved his hands into his coat pockets, shivering. 

From the start, he’d known he was in trouble. He’d been attracted to men before, but had never done anything beyond mutual handjobs in a crowded barracks. With Sherlock, from the start there was more than just a physical attraction.  There was a connection John felt to him that he’d never had with anyone else. He hadn’t dared to ruin it by pushing Sherlock after he’d made it clear that he wasn’t interested in a relationship. John couldn’t deny that Sherlock was attractive, in an odd, ethereal way, but he spent the first few months of their acquaintance denying just _how_ attractive he found Sherlock.  He was just so intriguing.  John wanted to find out all he could, and the more he learned, the more interested he became.

Sherlock was a study in contrasts. He was a complete genius, and yet knew next to nothing about common knowledge.  He acted so superior, above everything, but was incredibly vulnerable. He was mature, but childish. Aloof, but craving friendship and closeness.  World-wise, yet innocent. 

Even his physical appearance was made up of contrasts. Dark hair over pale skin. Strong hands, but nimble enough to coax such beauty out of the violin.  Intense, piercing eyes with a sensitive mouth.  Sharp cheekbones softened by curls.  And his eyes never seemed to decide on what color they wanted to be: icy blue, green, sometimes grey, but always flecked with gold.

John shook his head, smiling softly. If his own appearance couldn’t make up its mind about who Sherlock Homes really was, how could the rest of the world be expected to? 

He sighed, his breath misting in the cold air. In the end he’d accepted his feelings for Sherlock, as well as the fact that they would never be reciprocated. He’d done his best to move on, keep dating, but always knowing that, when given the choice, he would always choose Sherlock over everything else.  He knew it, as did the few women he’d dated.  Eventually, he’d just stopped trying; it wasn’t fair to expect them to accept only a fraction of his heart.  And he’d resigned himself to living the rest of his life in love with a man who could never love him back.

He didn’t resent Sherlock for it. Everyone was wired differently. John mostly liked women, occasionally men. His sister liked women. His best friend in high school had liked men.  Some people liked both equally. And others didn’t like either. After that horrid conversation in Angelo’s, John had believed that Sherlock was asexual, uninterested in general. And what he’d said was true. It _was_ all fine.  That was just who he was.

But now it was starting to seem like that wasn’t the case.  From what John understood – he had very little experience or knowledge in this area – an asexual person is uninterested in sex, period, and is unlikely to change that preference. If Sherlock was now saying that he was sexually attracted to John, then his original assumption was wrong, wasn’t it?

John shook his head again, exasperated. God, why did this man have to be so bloody difficult?  Didn’t he make _anything_ easy?

John wanted to just say fuck it all and go with it, but there was still this little niggling doubt.  What if this wasn’t really what Sherlock wanted? He didn’t know what being in a relationship was like.  What if Sherlock changed his mind?  Their friendship would be ruined, and John didn’t want to lose that.  Being friends with Sherlock was better than nothing.

But what if they worked together? What if a romance between them just clicked, just like their friendship had?  Was it worth taking that risk?  Was it worth losing everything, just for the small possibility of gaining more?

_Yes_.

The answer resounded in his heart and his head immediately.  Yes, it was worth it. Sherlock was worth it. _Of course_ he was worth it.  Obvious. John’s mouth twitched into a smile. He was already starting to sound like Sherlock.

Suddenly, his heart was in his throat, racing. He was really going to do this. He was really going to go for it.

He bounded up, his hands shaking, and jogged out of the park.  He wanted – needed – to be home right now.  Needed to tell Sherlock –

“Excuse me?”  A gentle hand grasped at his arm.              

He turned to see a woman, about 35, with short blonde curls and light blue eyes staring up at him hopefully. Her mouth was full and she had a small, slightly upturned nose on a heart-shaped face.

“You’re John Watson, aren’t you? Sherlock Holmes’ assistant?”

“Yes, but. . . .”  John pointed behind him.  “I was just –”

Her eyes widened.  “Please, you have to help me.”

The look of worry and fear on her face pulled all the thoughts of Sherlock running around his brain back to reality. “Are you alright?” he asked, grabbing her arms and running his medically trained eyes up and down her, searching for any possible injuries.  “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head.  “Please, I need to see Sherlock Holmes.  My sister. . . .”  She bit her lip to stop it from trembling.

“All right.  It’s all right.  I’ll take you to him. What’s your name?”

“Mary.  Mary Morstan.”


	5. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you to Amincar for making this sound so much better than it did!

When was John coming back?

Sherlock huffed and sat down cross-legged on the couch, staring at the door.  He’d spent the last hour and a half switching between pacing around the living room and staring out the window watching for John.

It was curious.  He had absolutely no idea what John was thinking while Sherlock had admitted to wanting a relationship – no, that word again; he wanted a deeper connection, not a _relationship_ – with John. And then he had practically ran out the door.  Sherlock sighed. It wasn’t looking too promising.

Finally, what must have been 40 minutes later, he heard the front door close and the soft tread of footsteps on the stairs. He lay back, trying to act as if he hadn’t been counting the seconds since John had left.

But as the footsteps grew closer, he sat up slightly, propping himself up with his forearms.  Two sets of footsteps.  And a woman’s voice.

So this was it?  This was John’s answer?  Bringing a woman home?  How uncharacteristically cruel of him.  He felt a twist of nausea in his stomach.  Was this how it was going to be?  Was John going to bring home women, knowing how Sherlock felt, and expect him to be civil about it? Well, that obviously wasn’t going to happen.

As soon as the door opened, Sherlock sat up. If they weren’t going to be together, it would be on Sherlock’s terms.  Not John’s.  “Never mind, John,” he snapped.  “I’ve changed my mind.”

“What?” John asked.  His arm dropped from Mary’s shoulders in shock as Sherlock stood up, looking murderous.  “ _Sherlock_ –”

“I _said_ ,” Sherlock repeated, coming to stand directly in front of John and glaring at him with cold eyes, “I’ve changed my mind.”  He stomped off without even a glance at _her_ , through the kitchen and to his bedroom, slamming the door.

He curled up on his bed and pulled the covers over his head, trying to detach himself from his raging emotions. Through the door, he could hear the familiar sounds of John making tea, and then his voice muffled as he told _her_ to make herself at home. The door opened and closed, but Sherlock didn’t move. 

“What the _hell_ is wrong with you?”

“Nothing.  I’m perfectly fine, no thanks to you,” Sherlock grumbled.

“What does _that_ mean?”

Sherlock sat up.  “Nothing, John.  Never mind. I’ve made my decision, now you can go off with her all you like.”

“Off with. . . .  Sherlock, I was coming to. . . .”  John groaned in frustration.  But there, just under his furious expression, was a hint of something. Sadness?  Disappointment?  He looked crestfallen for a fraction of a second, before his face closed. He drew himself up militarily and snapped, “You know what?  Fine. If you’re going to be like that, then fine.  But Mary’s here with a case for you, and it really can’t wait, so if you decide sometime in the next five minutes to _grow up_ , that would be great.”  And with that, he stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

Sherlock stared at the closed door where his dressing gown was swinging violently and scoffed.  John was being completely ridiculous.  Bringing home a woman, and then expecting Sherlock to be fine with it, and on top of that, expecting him to take on her case!

Then again, a case did sound fantastic right now. It would at least take his mind off everything that had happened today, even if it did involve this woman. He sighed and got up, smoothing out the wrinkles in his silk shirt and trousers.

When he emerged, he found John and his woman in the living room, John in his usual armchair and his woman on the couch, her hands wrapped around a mug of tea.  They had been chatting about something inconsequential, but their conversation fell silent when they saw him.  John cleared his throat pointedly.

Sherlock gave a half-hearted smile. “My apologies for my behavior,” he said reluctantly.  “I was rude.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” she quickly assured him. “I obviously came at a bad time.”

“Not at all,” John insisted with a glare at Sherlock. “My incredibly uncivil flatmate has just been having something of an odd day.”

Sherlock crossed his arms, pointedly ignoring John. “So, I’m told you have a case for me.”

She nodded, her expression darkening. Her lip trembled as she started, stumbling over her words, “My name is Mary.  Mary Morstan.  And . . . my sister is . . . she has . . . gone missing.”  She buried her face in her hands at that, silent sobs shaking her shoulders.

Sherlock rolled his eyes impatiently, wanting to push her along, but he knew he would never hear the end of it from John, so he stayed silent, biting his tongue and not allowing his gaze to travel to John as it so wanted to.  Finally, she managed to slow her breathing, raising her head and wiping her eyes.

“I’m sorry.  It’s just . . . my sister and I are very close, Mr. Holmes and the thought of something . . . what might have happened to her. . . .”  She shuddered.

“Have you gone to the police?” John asked.

She shook her head.  “I did, but they told me that it was low risk, and that they would do their best to follow up on any enquiries.  What good will that do if she left without a trace?”

Sherlock smiled smugly.  “Oh, I’m sure she’s left traces.”  John cleared his throat again, and Sherlock moved on with just the slightest twitch of annoyance.  “When did she disappear?”

She took a deep breath, apparently trying to gather her wits about her.  “Two days ago. Nancy was supposed to meet me for a coffee before work.  I waited for an hour, but she never showed, and hasn’t been at work since. Her mobile went straight to voicemail, and there was no sign of her at her flat.”

Sherlock felt his attention wavering at this point, and he started pacing.  Routine kidnapping, open and shut.  The sister would turn up in a ditch somewhere in a few days’ time.  She was probably already dead.

“The police just think she needed to get away, or something.  A bit of a holiday. You see, her husband passed away just last week.  She’s been acting really odd since.”

Sherlock froze at that, and turned to face Mary. “Her husband?”

Mary nodded.  “James Barclay.  An accountant. I never liked him much. He had a nasty temper – although he never turned it on Nancy.  And I always thought he’d swooped in rather fast after Nancy’s fiancé died.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw John start at that, but Sherlock interrupted before John could say anything. “How did her husband die? Anything suspicious?”

“Oh!” Mary exclaimed, looking surprised at the thought. “No, he fell down a flight of stairs and broke his neck.  No one home at the time.  Nancy found him a few hours later after she got home from work.”

“And the fiancé?”

Mary furrowed her brow.  “That was 15 years ago.  Surely that’s not relevant.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “If I ask, it’s relevant.”

She shrugged.  “That was accidental, as well.  Fell overboard on a fishing trip at sea and drowned.  They never found his body.”

Sherlock turned to the window to hide his smile. He could feel his mind whirring away, running through the possibilities.  “Certainly seem to be a number of accidental deaths that happen around your sister.”

He heard a delicate gasp from her. “You can’t think _she_ killed them.”

“No, I don’t.  But I think she was the reason they died.”  He turned back around.  “Tell me, have you got a picture of her fiancé?”

“Not with me.  I can bring one round in a few hours, though.”

“Not necessary,” Sherlock said with a wave of his hand. “If you’ll leave your sister’s address with us, we’ll meet you there tomorrow at 9 in the morning. Bring it then.”

Mary nodded and stood, taking that as her cue to leave. She reached into her purse and pulled out a small notebook, scribbling the address on one of the pages and ripping it out to hand to John.  “Thank you so much for your help, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock nodded curtly.  John got up to walk her to the door, but Sherlock didn’t miss the small smile and appraising look Mary was giving him as they walked out to the landing.  His jaw clenching, he went to the window and peered outside, watching as she finally appeared on the street. When John came back up, the tension in the room was palpable.

“So,” John finally said.  “You changed your mind.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Sherlock turned around, leaning back against the wall. John was standing in the door frame, shoulders back, heels together, toes apart, arms stiff at his sides. At attention. 

“Have you asked her out, yet?” he asked stiffly.

John’s brows furrowed and, almost immediately, his posture relaxed as he leaned his shoulder against the door frame. “You’re _jealous_.” A ghost of a smile played on his lips.

“I am not _jealous_ , John,” Sherlock scoffed.

He laughed, the smile spreading fully now. “Yes, you are. You think I like her.” His eyes widened. “Oh!  You thought I was bringing her to show you that I didn’t want to be with you.  You really think I would do that?”

“I didn’t know what to think. She obviously liked you. You must have noticed.”

He shrugged.  “Yeah she was a bit keen, but –”

“Then there you have it.  You were going to say no, so I said it for you.”

John pushed off from the door frame and took a few steps into the room, crossing his arms.  “Sherlock, you’re the one who told me that it’s no good trying to draw conclusions without all the facts.  And you don’t have all the facts.”

Sherlock glared at him.  “Don’t I?  You have a weakness for attractive women, John.  Then one appears just as you’re getting uncomfortable with our situation. Perfect opportunity for you to remain solidly within the strictly heterosexual walls you’ve built around yourself. Why wouldn’t you take it?”

“Fact: you’re my best friend and I wouldn’t say no like that.”  John took a step forward, dropping his arms to his sides.  “Fact: I do not, despite what you seem to believe, succumb to the wiles of every beautiful woman I meet, and I’ve never remained inside any strictly heterosexual walls, anyway.”  He took another step. “Fact: I only brought Mary here because she has a case for you, something I thought you would appreciate after getting us kicked off your last one.”  Another step.  Sherlock’s throat closed at the predatory look in John’s eyes.  “Fact: I was on my way home to give you my answer, which has absolutely nothing to do with Mary.”  One last step, and he was right there, standing so close Sherlock could feel his breath. “Fact: you see everything, but you have been _so_ blind when it comes to how I feel about you.  So.” John’s fingers trailed up his arm, coming to rest on his shoulder.  “Now that you have all the facts, deduce away.”

Sherlock swallowed.  His brain had grown foggier with each step John had taken and he tried to clear it, tried to _think_ , but it was so difficult when every neuron suddenly chose to hone in on that one point of contact between the two of them.  Cheeks slightly flushed. . . .  John’s eyes flickered down to Sherlock’s mouth, his tongue swiping over his own lips, and Sherlock’s mind clouded over even further.  Pulse.  Check his pulse. He glanced down to John’s neck. Elevated.  What else?  _God_ , John was so close.  Pupils.  Dilated.

“You want me,” he finally managed to say, his voice a gasp.

John smiled, and his hand continued on its path, across his shoulder, up his neck, stopping just under the side of his jaw. A shiver ran through Sherlock’s body as John lightly rubbed his thumb over his own pulse point, which was racing.

“Do you still want me to kiss you, Sherlock?” John asked, his eyes dropping down to Sherlock’s lips once more.

Sherlock swallowed the lump in his throat. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, please.”

John raised his eyebrows at that. “Please?” he echoed. “Interesting. . . .”

Sherlock’s face flushed.  He didn’t know where that had come from; it had just slipped out.

“Well, since you asked so politely. . . .” John murmured.  His hand slipped to the back of Sherlock’s neck and gently pulled him down.

Suddenly, Sherlock panicked.  He wanted this.  _God_ , did he want this. But he had no idea what to do. Where should his hands be? What about his nose? That seemed likely to get in the way.

But then John’s lips brushed against his own, and all the worry faded away.  His thoughts cleared, his mind growing wonderfully blank, filled only with the awareness that John was kissing him.  _John was kissing him_  

The first kiss was short, over almost as soon as it began, just a light touch of their lips.  But as John pulled back, Sherlock’s mouth eagerly followed and he clenched a hand in John’s jumper, pulling him back.  His arms wound round John’s neck, desperate to bring him closer, as close as he physically could.  John’s mouth opened in a small gasp of surprise and Sherlock’s lips followed suit, matching up against each other. 

This kiss was different.  It was passion, desire, heat, fire, all ripping through the two of them.  John pushed Sherlock back against the wall, his hand tugging at his hair, where before it had been softly entwined.  His tongue flicked out and traced the edges of Sherlock’s lips before darting in to his mouth. Sherlock’s own greeted John’s hesitantly at first, then eagerly.  John’s tongue circled around his, causing a deep moan to vibrate through Sherlock’s body, surprising both of them.

John pulled away momentarily, allowing for some breathing time, only to return quickly.  His tongue ran over Sherlock’s bottom lip slowly, then sucked it between his own. Sherlock mirrored him, pulling John’s upper lip between his and felt the corners of John’s mouth turn up. Sherlock nibbled on it slightly, tentatively, and this time it was John who moaned.

Sherlock nipped a bit harder, and this time John reciprocated, causing Sherlock to let out a surprised gasp. John took immediate advantage of Sherlock’s newly opened mouth, slipping his tongue inside momentarily, then out. Sherlock’s followed, delving into John’s mouth and exploring eagerly, Sherlock suddenly desiring to map out the entirety of this new part of John he’d never been allowed to explore before.

He ran his tongue along the inside of John’s lips, then over his teeth, and finally along the insides of his cheeks. He could feel John trembling in his arms and he loosened his hand from John’s jumper, wrapping it around his waist and pulling their hips firmly together. 

John pulled back with a groan as they rubbed together, biting his lip.  Sherlock let his head fall back against the wall, his breathing heavy. He felt John’s hand untangle from his hair, his fingers gliding along Sherlock’s jaw.  His thumb ran over Sherlock’s lower lip lightly.

Sherlock raised his head to see John looking at him with utter fascination.  “ _Wow,_ ” he breathed.  “Was that . . . your first. . . ?”

Sherlock shook his head.  “Mycroft thinks I’m a virgin, but he’s wrong. There were a few times, at university.” Sherlock drifted off, letting the sentence speak for himself.  It was obvious, even to a normal person like John, what Sherlock was hinting at. “But this was the first time it ever meant anything.”

* * *

The next morning was unbelievably awkward. They’d both gone to bed rather quickly after the kiss, in their respective rooms, but John was positive neither of them had gotten much sleep.  He’d kept picturing Sherlock’s face just before they’d kissed, the anticipation in his eyes. And he couldn’t get the feel of Sherlock’s lips – softer than he’d imagined – under his own out of his head. Eventually, his longing had gotten to the point where he could no longer wait for the throbbing erection to disappear on its own, and he’d taken care of it, unable to stop imagining it being Sherlock’s hand instead of his own.

When Sherlock emerged from his room the next morning, John already starting up breakfast in the kitchen, neither of them could make eye contact for longer than two seconds.  They skirted around each other widely as they each went along with their morning routines.  Finally, when they were sitting at the kitchen, Sherlock sipping a cup of tea and brushing his hands through his sleep-mussed curls, and John munching on toast, the tension grew so thick that John snapped.

He stood, leaning across the table and grabbed a fistful of Sherlock’s raggedy old t-shirt, pulling him in.  The last thing he saw before he closed his eyes was the shocked look on Sherlock’s face.  He pressed his lips against Sherlock’s soothingly, and, even though it was only a small peck on the lips, the atmosphere immediately softened.  He pulled away, releasing Sherlock, and settled back in his chair, smiling.  The rest of the morning went on mostly in silence as they got ready for the day, with small kisses interspersed throughout their daily routines.

It wasn’t until later, in the cab on the way to meet Mary, that John asked, “Are we going to tell people?”

Sherlock’s eyes slid to him and he cocked his head. “Isn’t that what couples normally do?”

“Yes.”  John took Sherlock’s hand and their fingers interlocked.  John smiled at the ease with which their relationship – physically, at least – seemed to be progressing.  It seemed so normal to hold hands with Sherlock.  So normal, in fact, that he didn’t know how or why they never had before.  “But I was thinking. This is so new to both of us. It might be easier to figure out _us_ without having to include everyone else in this.  At least for now.”

Sherlock was silent for a few minutes, obviously taking great consideration at this proposal.  Finally, he said, “I don’t care either way, John. But if this is what you want, then all right.  We can keep it a secret.”

John squeezed Sherlock’s hand in thanks. “Don’t worry, it won’t be forever. And we don’t have to actively _keep_ people from finding out. If someone asks, we’ll tell them. But I just don’t want to announce it to people and then have to deal with them, on top of working out this new dynamic between us.  This’ll be hard enough without all of Scotland Yard butting their big heads in.”


	6. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to Amincar's awesome beta'ing.

Sherlock and John’s cab pulled up at the address Mary had given them at nine o’clock sharp.  Mary was waiting for them already as they got out.  She smiled at John warmly and nodded at Sherlock. John noticed Sherlock’s mouth tightening slightly and placed his hand reassuringly on the small of his back. She didn’t seem to notice.

“Thank you again for your help.” She produced a key out of her purse and unlocked the door, leading the way inside.  “They’re on the third floor with a loft flat.” She led the rest of the way in silence, then unlocked the door to apartment 3C.

It became immediately apparent that the Barclays were fairly well-off.  The décor was simplistic, yet tasteful with touches of modern styles.  They had a large flat screen telly suspended on the wall; with just a glance, John could tell it was a new model.  From what they could see of the kitchen, it featured state of the art appliances.  There was a hall off the living room that must lead to a bathroom and possibly a bedroom or study, and to the right was a staircase that led to the master bedroom and an en suite.  Everything was pristinely clean and smelled strongly of disinfectant; they must have a maid or cleaning service that came daily. 

“He was affluent, your brother-in-law?” Sherlock prompted.

“Yes.  He inherited quite a bit when his parents passed, about twelve years ago.”

“Hmm,” was all Sherlock said. He immediately began strolling through the flat, studying everything and gaining, John was sure, an extraordinary amount of information from it.  “Very few pictures.  Not quite happily married, then.”  He disappeared into the kitchen and John heard him opening and closing cabinets, then reemerged quickly. “There’s almost no food in any of the cupboards or the fridge.  Someone’s cleaned them out.”  Sherlock threw John that look – the infamous _“We both know what’s going on here_ ,” look – and John rolled his eyes, shrugging.

Sherlock sighed despairingly and turned his attention to the stairs.  “This is where your brother-in-law died?”  She nodded and Sherlock swept his eyes over it.  “Any evidence has been cleaned away since.  How did he land?  Back or front?”

Mary furrowed her brows.  “On his front, I think.”

“Tell me, how did his parents die?”

“A house fire, I think.”

“Accidental?”

She nodded.

“Did you have the picture of your sister’s fiancé?”

“Oh, yes!”  She dug in her purse and pulled out a small photo and handed it to him.

His eyes swept over it.  “Good.  I’m done here, then.”

Both John and Mary were surprised at that. “What?  That’s it?”

“Yes, we’ll be in touch.  Come along, John!”  He ran out the door, coat flying behind him.

John followed with an apologetic smile. “Sorry, but if I don’t go, he’ll just leave without me.”

Mary nodded faintly and John ran out the door, leaving her behind.

* * *

“Right, so what have you got?” John asked when they were comfortably situated in the cab.  “I can tell, you’ve practically solved the case already.”

Sherlock smirked, an unrecognizable glint in his eyes, then scooted across the seat, trapping John against the door. He buried his nose in the crook of John’s neck, inhaling deeply.  “You smell fantastic, John.”

He felt John shiver against him. “ _Sherlock_ ,” he hissed.  “What are you doing?”

He nuzzled against John’s neck, smiling as he heard John’s breath hitch.  “It’s occurred to me,” he started, “that our agreement leaves you open to receiving unwanted romantic attentions from women.”

“You know, the women of London don’t. . . . _Mmm_.” Sherlock brushed his lips over John’s pulse point, feeling it jump.  “Don’t . . . descend upon me whenever . . . _Jesus_ . . .  whenever they sense that I’m single.”

“Don’t they?” he asked, his lips forming the words against John’s tender skin.  He slipped his hand into John’s coat pocket and smiled as he felt John’s heart rate increase dramatically.  His intentions, however, were not dishonorable.  This time. He pulled out a slip of paper and turned his head to look at it curiously as he held it up to John. “Oh, look at this. Mary left you her phone number.”

John spluttered.  “When did –”

“Hm, must have been inside.”  He pocketed her number and turned his attentions back to more pressing matters.  He brought his lips up to John’s ear, whispering, “You couldn’t take your eyes off me, you know. You like watching me work.”

“That’s not exactly a – _oh_.”

Sherlock sucked John’s earlobe into his mouth, causing John to jump.  He circled his tongue around it.  John reached up and brushed his fingers through Sherlock’s long curls and grabbed a handful, his fingers clenching as Sherlock bit down on it.  Sherlock released it long enough to wonder, “That’s not _what_ , John?” then pulled it back between his lips, loving the way John squirmed against him.

“That’s not . . . a. . . .  _God_.” Sherlock grinned and mercifully pulled away from John’s earlobe.  “It’s not a _secret_ ,” John finally finished vehemently.  His free hand came up and pushed Sherlock’s head back before he could clamp down on his earlobe again.  “I’ve always _loved_ watching you work.”  He threw a glance up to the front of the cab, to the driver who was tactfully ignoring his passengers, then leaned in.  Sherlock strained forward but at the last moment John diverted his path from Sherlock’s mouth to his neck with a smirk.  Sherlock growled in frustration.

“I love watching you think.”  He pressed a kiss to his neck.  “I love watching you pick apart crime scenes.”  A kiss to his jawbone now.  “I love the sharpness of your eyes, how they don’t miss a thing.” A trail of kisses along his jaw to his chin.  “I love watching you stump the entirety of Scotland Yard.”  Kisses along the other side of his jaw.  “And, God help me, I even love chasing you across London at the drop of a hat.”

Sherlock had been patient long enough. He grabbed John’s head and pulled it towards him, their lips finally coming together just as the cab jerked to a stop.

“Alright, lovebirds, break it up now,” the cabbie said jokingly.

John reluctantly pulled away as Sherlock handed up a few bills.  “Keep the change.”

They extricated themselves from the cab and John threw Sherlock a questioning glance.  “Bart’s?”

“Yes.  Thankfully Nancy Barclay disappeared before the arrangements for a funeral were made, and with no other living relatives, James Barclay’s been sitting on ice since he died.  I had Molly arrange for the transfer of his body to the morgue here.”

John nodded.  “Okay, and we’re going to look at him because. . . ?”

“Because James Barclay was murdered.”

* * *

When they got to the morgue, Molly already had the body laid out.  “Oh, hello,” she said, smiling and clutching her clipboard to her chest.  As always, a slight flush crept up her cheeks at the sight of Sherlock.

John had never really felt jealous of her and her crush until he’d found out that Molly had been the one entrusted with keeping the secret that Sherlock was alive.  Molly had turned out to be someone who Sherlock trusted more than he let on, someone who Sherlock could rely on, where previously that role had always fallen to John.  He knew it was stupid of him, knew that it was only because of her that Sherlock was alive, knew he was being a complete arse, but he couldn’t help but feel jealous of the role she’d played in everything.

And it didn’t help that Sherlock now seemed determined to make up for all the cruel things he’d said to her in the past. “Morning, Molly. Ah, changed your make-up. It looks lovely.” He strode past and leaned over the body of James Barclay, his eyes narrowing as he inspected his neck.

She blushed more deeply, her fingers fluttering up to her cheeks.  “Oh! I, erm … yes, thanks.” John’s lips thinned as she beamed at Sherlock, oblivious to John’s reaction.  “I’ll just … well, leave you to it, then, shall I?”  She turned and left, her heels clicking away.

Sherlock sighed and looked up. “I can’t concentrate with all that brooding you’re doing over there, John.”

“I’m not _brooding_ ,” John said, coming up to the autopsy table across from Sherlock.

Sherlock smiled wryly.  “You look lovely today, too.”

“Shut up.”  John rolled his eyes and Sherlock chuckled.  “So, James Barclay.  Murdered.  Pushed down the stairs?”

Sherlock turned his attention back to the body in front of him, pulling on gloves.  John followed suit, already turning his trained medical eyes onto the body. James Barclay had been an attractive man, but his features were harsh: strong nose, sharp cheekbones, accented jaw, a blunt mouth.  There were faded bruises all along the left side of his face, not uncommon after being shoved down a flight of stairs.  A small cut broke through the smooth skin of his forehead.

But the cause of death, that’s what they were here about.  John brought his hands up to Barclay’s neck, his practiced fingers feeling gently around first the front, then the sides, and finally the back of his neck. He frowned.  Something did not feel right.  He pulled off the gloves and grabbed the file, opening it and flipping through until he found a few x-rays that had been taken. His frown deepened as he held them up to the light.

“Sherlock, this isn’t right,” he said. “He suffered three fractures: one on the left side of the anterior arch of the C1 vertebra, and two on either side of the posterior arch of the C1 vertebra.  It’s a classic Jefferson Fracture, but it shouldn’t have actually killed him, even without immediate treatment.”  He looked up, puzzled, to see Sherlock nodding him along with an encouraging look on his face.  “So, how. . . ?” His eyes widened as he looked back at the x-rays.  “He was already dead! He was _thrown_ from the staircase, to make it look like an accident.”

John replaced his gloves and rushed back over to the side of the autopsy table, his fingers this time pushing and prodding along the back of Barclay’s skull.  “Yes, here,” he said, turning Barclay’s head to the side and pointing to it. “A basilar fracture to the foramen magnum.  Blunt force trauma.” He pressed his fingers against it, biting his lip.  “From the shape of the fracture, I’d say it was a long, thin, but sturdy object.  A cane?”  He shook his head, releasing Barclay’s.  “Coroner wouldn’t have been looking for an injury like this, not with an obvious neck fracture.”

Sherlock reached across the autopsy table and pulled John in for a quick kiss, then released him.  “Yes!  Brilliant, John!” Sherlock shed the gloves, practically bounding around the room.  “So, the murderer hits him at the base of his skull, killing him almost instantaneously, yes?”

John nodded thoughtfully.  “With a wound like that, it would take a few seconds, but the sheer force would have caused massive brain swelling.  It would certainly not have taken longer than 30 seconds.”

“Barclay goes down and the murderer picks him up and throws him down the stairs to cover up the skull fracture. Not quite elegant, but effective nonetheless.  Now we’ve just got to catch the murderer, and I guarantee, where he is, Nancy Barclay will be, as well.”

“What, you know who it is?” John asked, surprised. “He kidnapped Nancy?”

“Yes and no.  The murderer is right handed, as indicated by the wound on the right side of James Barclay’s head, about 5 feet, 9 inches tall, strong, a fisherman, and crippled.  He has blond hair, green eyes, and a peculiarly large nose, but that doesn’t detract from his good looks. Nancy went with him willingly.”

John gaped at him.  He understood how Sherlock could have deduced his height and build, as well as his dominant hand, but the rest?  “How do you know all that?”

“Because, this is him,” Sherlock declared, pulling out a photo with a flourish.  “Henry Wood, Nancy Barclay’s thought-to-be-dead ex-fiancé.”  He handed the photo to John who studied it.

The photograph featured a handsome young man with his arm around a lovely brunette who must be Nancy.  They were both smiling, their heads leaning against each other. “But he drowned.”

“Look at him, John.  Strong arms from hauling in loads of fish. A swimmer’s build. This man was no stranger to water. He was a strong swimmer. The body was never found. He survived.  And he’s got the right build to cause a fracture like that with just one hit.”

John rubbed his hand over his face. “Right, so, not dead. God, you two should get together and swap stories.”  He held up his hand as Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, probably to apologize again. “No, I’m not still mad, Sherlock, just pointing out that people seem to be faking their deaths quite a bit around here.  Anyway, back to the fiancé. Henry Wood, you said? If he was alive this whole time, why didn’t he come back for her?  I mean, why now?”

Sherlock pursed his lips.  “John, I need you to call Mary for me.  She won’t talk to me as openly as she will you.”

* * *

“Hello?”

John cleared his throat.  “Hi, Mary?  This is John Watson.”

“Oh, John, hi!”  John’s lips thinned at the open excitement in Mary’s voice, and if he wasn’t mistaken, not all of it was from the possibility of new information from her sister’s disappearance.  She was definitely more than just interested.  “How are you?  I mean, how’s the case?  Things . . . going well? Have you found Nancy?”

John glanced out the window of the cab that was driving him back to Baker Street.  Sherlock had taken his own, planning to stop at Scotland Yard to get Lestrade’s help with searching for Henry Wood and Nancy Barclay.  “Yeah, case is progressing well.  There’s just, I have to ask you a few questions, if that’s all right.”

“Oh, of course, whatever you need!”

“Right.  So, your sister.  Before her husband died, had she been acting strange at all?  Detached, or inexplicably happy, or anything?”

“No, she was just the same as always.”

“D’you know if they had a fight?”

He could hear the hesitation in her voice as she thought about it.  “Well, now that you mention it, she did say that they’d had a huge row.  I think that was about three days before he died. She didn’t say what it was about.”

John quickly scribbled that down on the rough timeline he’d made of Nancy Barclay’s life.  “You said her fiancé died 15 years ago, yeah?  How long had they been together?”

“Honestly?  I have no idea, formally,” she answered.  “Our parents were friends, so we all grew up together, went to the same schools and everything.  Nancy and Henry were always close, and in secondary school their relationship just naturally progressed further.  I can’t remember when, exactly.  That’s how close they were, and most people had already assumed they were dating by then, anyway.” John wrote furiously as Mary talked, trying to get in every detail he could.  “They even went to university together.  Henry finally proposed on Nancy’s 21st birthday. They were engaged for a year and a half until he died.”  She let out a soft, sad sigh.  “They really loved each other, you know.  They were soul mates.”

John made a noncommittal noise and moved on. “So, when did Nancy meet her husband?”

“Oh, at uni.  They were all friends.  Even shared a flat together at one point, I think.  I could always tell that he fancied her, but he and Henry were good friends. No hard feelings between the two of them.  He was absolutely distraught when he came back from that fishing trip and had to tell Nancy what had happened.”

John froze at that.  “Wait.  James Barclay was with Henry when he died?”

“Yes.  They went fishing together quite a bit.”

John nodded faintly.  Everything seemed to be coming together now. He just had a few more things to cover. “So, Nancy was upset when she found out?”

Mary snorted on the other line. “She was devastated. Couldn’t get over it for _years_ , even after she married James.”

“But she did move on, eventually?” John prompted.

“Yes, about four years later. It was like she’d just decided one day that she was over it, and it was time to move on with her life. Time to look ahead to the future, I think that’s what she said.”

“Right,” John said.  “There’s just one more thing, then.  After she . . . moved on . . . did she ever go away for weekends? Like, on holiday, or something?”

“Once a month, yes.  She goes up to Liverpool for a weekend every month. She does some volunteer work there.”

“Once a month, every month, for eleven years?”

“Yes.”

John sighed.  “All right, Mary, thank you.  That’s all I need.”  He looked out the window to see they were drawing close to Baker Street.  “I’ll let you know when we find anything, all right?”

“Of course.  But, John,” Mary said quickly.  John took in a deep breath.  He knew what was coming next.  “Um, I was wondering if, maybe, you’d like to have a coffee sometime?  With me?”


	7. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks again to Amincar for all her help!

John sighed, stretching back on the couch.  Sherlock would be home momentarily, no doubt, and impatient to hear the details of John’s call to Mary.  The case was clearing itself up quickly; the details were taken care of, and all they had to do now was find Henry Wood. 

A slammed door and footsteps pounding up the stairs signaled Sherlock’s arrival only seconds before he burst into the room.  His face brightened at John as he sat up, and Sherlock shucked his long coat off before striding over, taking John’s face in his hands, and melding their lips together. 

John stiffened, pulling his head back.  “Sherlock, the case –”

“Can wait.”  He pressed his lips back against John’s.

John’s mind whirled even as his body responded automatically. Mary had just asked him out and he should tell Sherlock – or say something, mention it, at least – before anything. . . . 

But John’s worries were quickly becoming muddled in his mind as Sherlock pulled his lower lip between his mouth and nibbled on it.  John groaned, amazed at the dramatic increase of confidence from Sherlock in this.  John reached up and grabbed Sherlock’s neck, pulling him down.  “Mm, I want you, John.” 

And with that, the only thoughts that did not fly out of his head were _more_ and _God, yes_ and _need you._ John slid down slightly as Sherlock straddled him, hitching his knees against John’s hips. John groaned again as the indicator of just how much Sherlock wanted him ground against him. Sherlock ducked his head and lowered his mouth to John’s neck.  John felt a sharp nip on his skin followed by his warm tongue, soothing the tender skin.

“ _God_ , Sherlock,” John moaned as Sherlock bit his way down his neck.  Sherlock’s nimble fingers unbuttoned John’s shirt and pushed it open. John leaned forward to pull it off his arms.  They broke apart long enough for Sherlock to yank off the t-shirt John was wearing under his outer shirt. Sherlock resumed his path, sliding his hands up John’s well-defined chest.  His fingers brushed against John’s nipple, and John gasped, bucking his hips up in surprise at the sensation, causing Sherlock to pull back with raised eyebrows and a shy, slightly proud smile.

John took advantage of the situation to flip Sherlock around, lying him down across the couch and hovering over him.  He smirked at the look of surprise in Sherlock’s eyes and dipped his head, murmuring, “My turn.”

Sherlock turned his head to the side and John clamped his lips down on the long, sinewy tendon that he’d pictured sucking on more times than he’d like to admit. He ran his tongue up it, feeling Sherlock shiver under him, then introduced his teeth, lightly biting it. His hands drifted down and his fingers made quick work of the buttons on Sherlock’s silk shirt. He pushed his hands inside, spreading his fingers across the wide expanse of smooth skin. 

Sherlock’s legs wrapped around his hips and the telltale bulges that neither of their trousers were doing a very good job at concealing rubbed together. A deep rumble vibrated through Sherlock’s body and John clenched his fingers down into Sherlock’s skin, struggling to bite back a moan.  He rocked his hips against Sherlock’s; judging from their reactions, and if the throbbing of his own erection was any indication, they weren’t going to last much longer.

John pulled away slightly and slid his hands down Sherlock’s long torso, pausing before he reached his trousers, allowing Sherlock the time to stop him if he wanted to.  Although Sherlock’s eyes widened – in anticipation, John thought – he stayed perfectly still. John undid the button and zip of Sherlock’s trousers and pulled them off.  Sherlock’s cock slid out eagerly.  He made quick work of pulling off his own jeans and pants, while Sherlock yanked his shirt off the rest of the way, tossing it to the floor. John blushed slightly as Sherlock looked him up and down, but found himself doing the same thing.

Sherlock was beautiful.  His skin was smooth and pale, almost iridescent, and he was more well-defined that John would have guessed.  His curls were mussed, splayed out against the cushions of the couch.  His eyes were hazy, the first time John had ever seen them without that intelligent sharpness, and his cheeks were flushed.  John leaned down, his lips hovering inches away from Sherlock’s and he whispered, “You are so beautiful.”

Sherlock’s eyes softened, and he made a small noise in the back of his throat. He wrapped his arms around John’s neck and pulled him in, their lips melting together.  John shifted slightly, bearing his weight on his right forearm, and reached down to curl his fingers around Sherlock, who moaned into John’s mouth at the contact.  John slowly started moving his hand along Sherlock.

He was surprised when he felt Sherlock’s hand wrap around him. He broke away, letting out a loud groan as Sherlock rubbed the tip gently with his thumb, then started pumping away at it, experimenting with different pressures.  John realized his hand had stopped, and he started up again, faster this time.  Sherlock thrust his hips up letting out a guttural moan that went into John and travelled straight south.

John’s head lowered, nipping at Sherlock’s lips slightly before he pulled away again.  Their breath, hot and thick, mingled together in the short distance between their mouths. John breathed it in, dazed by the sweet scent that was their breath mixed together.  Sherlock’s hand reached up into John’s hair, tugging slightly at the short bond and grey strands.  John bit his lip, gazing down into Sherlock’s glazed eyes that today were a hypnotic pale blue, unable to remember ever seeing anything so beautiful.

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock moaned. His back arched as he came, gripping John’s hair tightly. 

His hand tightened around John’s cock and he followed suit seconds later with a shuddering breath.  His forearm gave out and he collapsed on top of Sherlock, both of their breathing heavy. He felt Sherlock’s arms wind around his waist and they shifted so that they were each lying on their sides, face-to-face. John pushed Sherlock’s damp curls out of his eyes and smiled.

“Wow,” was all he could find to say. 

Sherlock smiled.  “Why haven’t we been doing this the whole time?”

John’s fingers caught in a snarl in Sherlock’s hair as he brushed through it. He wound the offending lock around his finger then released it, watching it spring back into place. “I have no idea.”

A comfortable silence stretched between them as they lay in each other’s arms, content.

The silence was broken a few minutes later by a hesitant knock sounded at the door followed by an uncertain voice asking, “Is it safe to come in?”

“Fuck,” John muttered, trying to rise and grab his clothes, but Sherlock just pulled a blanket down over them, snuggling in to John’s chest.

“Come in,” Sherlock called casually, as if they hadn’t just been shagging a minute ago.

John twisted his head around to see Mrs. Hudson warily peeping through a crack in the door.  Obviously satisfied that she wasn’t going to see anything she didn’t want to – or wasn’t _supposed_ to want to, John amended as he took in the eager way her eyes swept over the blanket – she opened the door all the way. 

“Sorry to disturb you boys while you’re . . . busy,” she said, “but Detective Inspector Lestrade stopped by a short while ago. I would have sent him up, but from the sound of it you were right in the middle, and it wouldn’t do to interrupt you at the best part, now would it?”

“Mrs. Hudson!” John exclaimed, his face flushing.  Sherlock snickered as he scooted in closer to John.

“Oh, please, Doctor Watson, it’s nothing to be embarrassed about. I’ve had my share of fun too.” She leaned in conspiratorially, her voice lowering slightly.  “You know, my husband was a very passionate man, and when he wasn’t being a complete arse, he was a _fantastic_ lover. Oh, he could go for ages. There were times when we didn’t leave the bedroom for _days_.”

John slunk down into the couch further.  “ _Oh my God_ ,” he groaned, then elbowed Sherlock as he laughed again.

“What did Lestrade want?” Sherlock asked, mercifully changing the subject.

“Oh, I don’t know.  He said he’d call. Looked rather uncomfortable, like he wanted to get out of here as quick as possible.  Mind you, noise does travel quite well in these old buildings.”

Sherlock sniggered again as John called, “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” his voice cracking slightly. 

She took the hint and left, pausing only to say, “It’s about time, you know. I was starting to wonder if you two would ever get there on your own.”

* * *

An hour later, after quick showers and an awkward phone call with Lestrade, John and Sherlock were back in a taxi, on their way to Scotland Yard. John briefly relayed his conversation with Mary to Sherlock, who nodded, smirking.

“As I thought.  Nancy Barclay has been having an affair with Henry Wood for nearly 12 years.  James Barclay found out about it, which resulted in their fight, a confrontation between James and Henry, and the death of James, leaving the two lovers free to elope.  She emptied out the kitchen, taking enough food to last them about a week, I’d guess.” He sighed, leaning back in the seat. “How dull.  And this case had such potential.”

John rolled his eyes.  “Well, at least it’s kept you entertained for a bit.”

Sherlock slowly slid his eyes up and down John’s form, his mouth quirking up to the side.  He was fascinated to see a reddish tinge coloring John’s cheeks, and growing darker by the second. “I’m sure I would have found another form of entertainment.”

He watched as John looked away and awkwardly rubbed his neck, then cleared his throat. “Mary asked me out,” he said, with a hint of fake casualty in his tone.

Sherlock wasn’t surprised at all.  It was obvious that Mary was interested in John, and she didn’t seem like the type to wait around forever for the man to make the first move. “What did you say?”

John looked out the window.  Avoiding eye contact.  Not good. “I didn’t really say anything. I mean, the cab had just got to Baker Street, so I sort of took the opportunity to . . . avoid answering and hang up.” He threw a hesitant glance to Sherlock.

Sherlock kept his face carefully blank, but underneath the stony façade was a wave of disappointment.  “I see.”

John turned at the waist, so that he was facing Sherlock. “Look, I’m sorry. I just . . . I don’t really know what exactly . . . _this_ . . . is between us yet.”

Sherlock nodded.  “Of course.”

“And, to be completely honest, if we . . . if _this_ . . . hadn’t happened, I wouldn’t have hesitated to say yes to her.”

He swallowed, allowing John the time to look thoroughly apologetic, then said, “I understand.  But, John, just tell me one thing.”  He fought to keep the emotions that he didn’t even know how to give names to – he figured one of them was probably jealousy; obvious – from entering his voice. “If I were a woman, and our relationship,” –he wrinkled his nose at the term as he said it– “was in the same questionable stage, would you have had any problem in telling her that you were already involved with somebody?”

Silence.

Sherlock nodded and turned his head away.  “I thought so.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know you are.”

He felt John’s hand slide onto his arm, felt him shift closer. “Sherlock, I _am_ sorry.  I wanted to say something before . . . well . . . but I. . . .  It’s just . . . I’ve never had anything more than a quick one-off with a man before, and this is all new to me, too, and. . . .”

“It’s fine, John,” Sherlock said, trying to keep his voice steady, though it was, in fact, nowhere near fine.  John stared uncertainly at him, obviously not believing him for a second, so Sherlock threw one of his best fake smiles at him.  John’s lips thinned, but his hand fell away and he nodded resolutely.

They passed the rest of the journey in awkward silence. Sherlock didn’t want to admit it, but he was disappointed.  Disappointed in Mary for making John feel this way.  Disappointed in John for feeling this way in the first place. Disappointed in himself for expecting anything different.  Most of all, he was disappointed in himself for feeling anything at all.

Sherlock stared out the window, watching the buildings zoom past. Really, it wasn’t as if a sexual identity crisis was unexpected from John.  He’d always maintained – quite firmly – that he wasn’t gay. But, if John was going to have a crisis at all, Sherlock had expected it sooner, not after the kiss the night before, and certainly not after the adventure on the couch an hour ago. And it would have been much kinder on the both of them if he’d figured it out earlier.  Now, it seemed too late to go back, to forget everything they’d done, and everything they could be.  And Sherlock didn’t think he wanted to go back, anyway.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, the cab pulled up at the Met. Sherlock paid and led the way inside, sweeping past the desk, as well as the formalities that are required when one wishes to see a detective inspector.  He barged into Lestrade’s office and planted himself comfortably in one of the chairs, making himself at home.  John shut the door behind him, but didn’t come any closer into the room, crossing his arms.

Lestrade raised his eyebrows at the icy atmosphere passing between the two men. “Everything all right?”

“Fine,” Sherlock said coldly.  “Now, I assume, since you’ve called us in, you’ve found our missing lovers. Or at least a trace of them.”

Lestrade’s eyes flicked back and forth between Sherlock and John, who was still standing stiffly in front of the door.  He sighed, obviously deeming this something personal that he _really_ didn’t want to get involved in, and rubbed the back of his neck.  “Sort of.” 

Sherlock furrowed his brow.  “Sort of? What do you mean, sort of? How can you ‘sort of’ find someone?”

Lestrade slid a manila folder across his desk to Sherlock, but kept his hand on it when Sherlock tried to pick it up.  “We’ve found Nancy Barclay’s body.”

* * *

Half an hour later, Mary arrived at the Met.  John, Sherlock, and Lestrade met her in the lobby. She greeted them morosely, wringing her hands.  Her eyeliner was spread in dark circles around her eyes, her cheeks blotchy, and her nose red. She caught John’s eye, her own filling with tears.  “Is it true? Is Nancy dead?”

John didn’t know what to say.  Thankfully Lestrade took over.  “Miss Morstan? Thank you for coming down.” He offered his hand to her, but she just stared at it.  He tactfully dropped it.  “I’m Detective Inspector Lestrade.  We spoke on the phone earlier.  I’m so sorry, but I’m going to need you to identify the body.”

Mary held her hand to her chest, her fingers curled in a fist. She took a deep breath and nodded. Lestrade led the way to the morgue in silence.  John fell into step beside Mary as Sherlock brought up the rear, quiet for once. Mary clutched John’s arm as they drew nearer, and John heard Sherlock’s breath hitch.  John’s lips thinned and he patted Mary’s hand. He wasn’t about to deny Mary comfort just because of his currently awkward situation with Sherlock.

Lestrade held the door open to the morgue, where a body was lying on a table, a white sheet covering it.  The group approached the table hesitantly.  Lestrade eyed Mary with a sigh, then pulled back the sheet.  Mary sucked in a sharp breath, holding her hands to her mouth. Her eyes widened.

She gave a small nod.  “Yes. That’s Nancy.”

Sherlock was leaning over the body, the same sharp look entering his eyes that he had whenever he was picking apart a crime scene.  John kicked him and he jumped, looking at John questioningly. “You can _wait_ ,” John hissed, and Sherlock huffed, crossing his arms.

Lestrade pulled the cover back over Nancy’s head.  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” he said, sounding as if he meant it.

Mary’s hands lowered, and she hugged herself.  “Can I go now?” she asked, her voice shaking.

“Of course.”

“I don’t see why I’d need you here for this, John.  Why don’t you take Mary back to her flat?” Sherlock suggested icily, but his face was blank.  “I’ll meet you at home.”

“Sherlock. . . .” John started, just as Mary cried, “Oh, would you?”

John stared at Sherlock for a few seconds.  It was clear that John’s response to Mary asking him out bothered Sherlock more than he was letting on.  Just the fact that he’d used one of his fake smiles earlier, usually only reserved when he was trying to manipulate a witness or possible suspect, was evidence enough of that.  But if he was going to pretend that everything was okay, then fine.  Two could play at that game.

“I would be glad to,” he said.  “I’ll see you later, then.”  He turned abruptly, his spine straightening, and guided Mary out stiffly, missing the crestfallen look that flickered across Sherlock’s face and the utter confusion on Lestrade’s.

* * *

Lestrade exhaled loudly as Sherlock ripped back the sheet and leaned back over Nancy’s body, his eyes narrowing.  He watched for a few minutes as Sherlock muttered to himself.  It wasn’t until he caught John’s name that he realized Sherlock wasn’t concentrating on the case.

“So. . . .” Lestrade started, knowing he was going to forever regret asking this. “What’s going on with you and John?”

There was a clatter as Sherlock dropped his small magnifying glass on the floor. He straightened. “What are you talking about?”

“You and John,” Lestrade repeated, staring questioningly at Sherlock. “Usually you’re so bloody chummy–”

“Everything’s fine,” Sherlock snapped.  He glared at Lestrade with a look that clearly said _drop it_ , and turned back to the body.

Lestrade was quiet for a few more minutes, then said, “It just seems like you two weren’t as nauseatingly . . . _you_.”

Sherlock straightened with a snarl.  “Lestrade, if you don’t mind, this is none of your business.”

Lestrade raised his eyebrows.  Since when did Sherlock care about privacy?  “Sherlock, I’m your friend.  You can talk to me, you know.”

Sherlock stared at him, then sighed.  “Fine.” He leaned against the table and Lestrade crossed his arms, ready to listen.  After several long seconds, Sherlock began, “John and I have . . . transitioned beyond mere friendship.”

It took Lestrade a moment to understand exactly what Sherlock was saying. When he did, he could only imagine the astonished look that appeared on his face.  “Are you saying . . . you and John. . . ?”

“Are now involved in a sexual relationship?  Yes.”

Lestrade broke into a fit of coughs at that.  It was one thing to overhear questionable noises making there way down the stairwell.  It was completely different to have it confirmed so blatantly.  When he finally gained control of himself, Sherlock was scowling at him. “Right, so, you’ve. . . .” He gestured vaguely at Sherlock. “You know.  What’s the problem, then?”

“The _problem_ ,” Sherlock said sourly, “is that _John_ doesn’t know what he wants anymore.”

“ _Ah_ ,” Lestrade said. “Mary.”

“How did you know?”

“She seems like John’s type.”  Lestrade said with a laugh, but the look that Sherlock gave him was so pathetic that Lestrade immediately realized the severity of the situation. “Right, right, sorry. You know, Sherlock, I don’t think you have to worry.”

“Why not?”

Lestrade sighed.  “Have you not seen the way he looks at you?  Half of the Yard thinks you two are together already.  He’s not been on a date in four years, Sherlock.  He wants you, not Mary.” 

“I thought so, too.”  Sherlock looked back down at the body, his lips thinning.  Lestrade didn’t think he’d ever seen the man look so distraught. Or so uncertain. “But now I’m not so sure.”


	8. Chapter7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to Amincar!

Mary managed to hold her tears in until they got into the door of her flat, at which point they spilled over. She furiously wiped at her eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

John rubbed her back gently.  “No, it’s fine, of course it’s fine.  You’ve just lost your sister.  I can’t even imagine if I’d lost my–”

Before he could stop her, Mary had plastered herself to him.  She wound her arms around his neck pulling his head down to make their lips meet.  Her cheeks were slick with tears, her lips salty, and her hands trembled in his hair.  It felt wrong; it felt despicable.  He just couldn’t. . . .

He slipped a hesitant hand around her waist, despite knowing he shouldn’t, despite hating himself for it.  Mary was lonely, and sad, and this wasn’t what she really needed, even if she felt like she did.  And Sherlock. . . .  God, _Sherlock_.

John pulled away, placing his hands on Mary’s shoulders and holding her at arm’s length.  The tears were still leaking from her eyes, which were wide, looking at him, startled.  Her mouth hung open slightly.  “John. . . . I’m sorry.  I just–”

“No.  You didn’t do anything wrong.”  He released her, rubbing his forehead.  “You’re sad, and you need comfort, but I’m sorry, I can’t give you the kind of comfort that you want.  I should have told you before.  I should have told you when you asked me for coffee.  I’m involved with someone else.”

She looked startled, her eyes widening. She immediately took a step back and looked away, her hand coming up across her chest to rub her upper arm awkwardly. “Oh.  _Oh_.”  She turned back at him, realization in her eyes. “You and Sherlock Holmes. . . .”

He chuckled embarrassedly.  “Is it that obvious?”

“John, I’m sorry.  If I’ve come between you. . . .”

“No, no.”  He thought about it for a moment, about how wrong kissing her had felt, how much he wanted to get back to Baker Street and just give Sherlock all of him, how he wanted to be completely consumed by him.  “If anything, I think you actually cleared up some things for me. So, thank you.”

Mary nodded, sniffling a bit. John’s thoughts automatically turned back into concern for her.  “Is there anyone you can call?  A friend, or something?”

“Yes.”  She clasped her hands in front of her, wringing them together. “Thank you, John. For everything. But I think you’d better go.”

* * *

The minute John stepped into the room, Sherlock knew. Slightly tousled hair. Reddened lips. Guilt-ridden expression. Obvious.

Sherlock turned over on the couch, his back to John, curling his knees up to his chest.  There it was again.  That disappointment. And piled on top of it was a devastation that was so heavy, he thought it might crush him, with a bit of rejection added as the cherry on top.  This. _This_ was the reason why he’d avoided relationships and intimacy and _feelings_ for his entire life. They were messy. They were distracting. They were encompassing.

And they fucking _hurt_.

He heard John move into the room and sit in his armchair, heard the small sigh as he stared at Sherlock’s back. He could picture John rubbing his eyes with his thumb and pointer finger, see him covering his mouth with his hand, trying to think of what to say, rubbing his upper lip. 

Finally, John broke the silence. His voice was raspy, uncertain, thin. “So, you know.”

Sherlock cleared his throat, hoping his voice wouldn’t come out as a croak.  “Know what?”

He heard a rustle.  John scooting to the edge of the seat, leaning forward. “Sherlock, come on. You had to know _something_ was going to happen when you sent me off with her.” He heard a rustle again, as John shifted in his seat.  “I mean, that’s why you did it in the first place, isn’t it?  To see what would happen?  You turned it into another bloody experiment.”

Sherlock hugged his knees closer to his chest as he felt something click in his brain.  Yes, it had been an experiment.  A test. How had John figured it out, when Sherlock himself didn’t even realize it?  “The results were not what I had hypothesized.  I should have expected this.”

“Fucking hell, Sherlock!”  The sudden fury in John’s voice shocked Sherlock, but he refused to react.  “Do I always have to be your bloody experiment?” 

“Shouldn’t I be the one feeling betrayed, John?” Sherlock asked, forcing a lightness into his voice that he certainly wasn’t feeling. “I gave you a choice. You made your decision, and it wasn’t me.  Fine. It’s _all fine_ ,” he said bitterly.  _Not fine at all, John_ , Sherlock screamed internally.  _Observe.  Deduce. It’s_ not _fine._

John didn’t respond for a long time. So long, that Sherlock was sorely tempted to turn over to see if John was still even in the room anymore, though he hadn’t heard him leave.  But then he heard a resigned sigh.  When he spoke, his voice was flat with unwanted acceptance.  “Fine.  So that’s it.”

Sherlock’s eyes prickled peculiarly, his throat thick with emotions he’d denied since he was a child.  He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting off the prickling sensation and cleared his throat.  “I suppose it is.”

Silence again.  For a long while.  Then Sherlock heard John get up, heard his footsteps walk back out the door to the flat, up the stairs, and finally heard the door to John’s room slam shut.

Sherlock curled himself even further into a ball, trying to make himself as small as he felt.  He reached down to the floor, feeling around for the blanket they’d discarded earlier.  Grasping it, he pulled it over him, pressing the soft material to his nose to breathe in the faint scent of John that still lingered there.

What was going to happen now? Would they still talk, or would their friendship dissolve?  Would John still come on cases with him? Would he move out?  He wanted John, longed for him, certain that saving their friendship was better than nothing, but could he stand to be around John and _her_?

These thoughts consumed him, echoing in his mind until they overlapped, the noise in his head becoming raucous, undistinguishable, until finally, it all culminated in one, absolutely, completely terrifying thought:

If John left, could Sherlock survive without him?

A strangled cry erupted from his throat and he buried his face in the blanket.  Emotions, feelings. . . .  They were too hard. Too painful.  He needed to get rid of them, flip the switch, shut them off. He’d done it before. He could do it again. _Had_ to do it again.  Had to focus on the work.  That was all that used to matter to him, and he could make it happen again.  Nothing else was of import.  People.  Relationships. Love.  It was all fleeting.  He would forget it all.  Delete it. Get back to the case.

But not tonight.  Tonight, he would allow himself to feel the pain. And he would save it, keep the memory as a reminder of why it was better to feel nothing.  Tomorrow he would get back to the case.

Because right now, for the first time in years, Sherlock didn’t feel much like working.

* * *

“Stupid, bloody, stubborn _git_ ,” John grumbled, seething.  “Fucking Sherlock Holmes, the only bloody consulting detective in the world.”  He grabbed the closest thing on his desk to his hand – a book – and chucked it at the wall. It made a satisfyingly loud thud. “Thinks he knows absolutely _everything_ about _everything_ and he’s too bloody ARROGANT TO ADMIT HE’S WRONG!” He shouted the last bit, hoping that Sherlock would hear him.  He grabbed another book and threw it at the wall, then fell back onto his bed, staring up at the ceiling.

All the anger in him dissipated with the sigh he let out and he deflated.  “Fucking bastard,” he breathed, his voice wavering pathetically, rubbing his face with his hands.

This was his fault.  John could feel all the guilt and shame and disappointment in the world, but that wasn’t going to change the fact that this was a situation that came about because of the decisions that he had made. He had chosen not to be honest with Mary after noticing her interest.  He had avoided confirming that his and Sherlock’s relationship was _real_.  He had been afraid, he realized.  Afraid that it was going to change everything, somehow _destroy_ them, and he could not handle that.  He couldn’t lose Sherlock, not again.  And yet John had lost him anyway, and it was his own fault.  Talk about a self-fulfilling prophecy.

John had hoped it would go better. He’d wanted to be able to explain to Sherlock what had happened, and how it had actually been a _good_ thing . . . sort of.  Wanted to tell Sherlock that he knew what – who – he wanted now. That he’d _already_ known; he’d just needed a push in the right direction. And that was exactly what Mary had given him.

But then he’d figured out that Sherlock had sent him off to test him.  Wound him up and watched him dance, just like he’d done countless times before, like he had with the Baskerville case.  And John had been angry then, pissed that Sherlock had been able to fool him, and had taken advantage of him like that. 

Was that all John was to Sherlock? The dependent variable in one of his damn experiments?  He thought he’d meant more than that.  But apparently not.

He was just as worthless to Sherlock as he’d always thought he was.

* * *

Deleting emotions wasn’t as easy as Sherlock remembered.  Two days had passed since John had made his decision, and Sherlock was still devastated. The first day he’d spent three hours in bed before getting up, working on systematically deleting every emotion he’d ever felt for John. 

It had all been for nothing, though, when Sherlock emerged from the bathroom after showering to find John sitting in the kitchen, shoveling down a plateful of eggs as fast as he possibly could, obviously trying to avoid Sherlock.  He froze when he saw Sherlock, his hand hovering in midair, clutching the fork that had been traveling to his mouth, which was hanging open comically.  Everything came rushing back like a punch to the stomach, and Sherlock had nearly doubled over from the seemingly increased intensity of his emotions.  Sherlock had turned without a word, retreating back to his room and staying there until he heard John leave for work.

The rest of that day, and the entirety of the next day, consisted of the same routine.  Sherlock deleted his emotions, saw John, and then promptly drowned under a wave of emotions.  It was really becoming ridiculous. 

He pretended not to be hurt when John chose not to come with him to work on the case.  Tried to prove to John that he was fine.  That he could live without him, if he needed to.  But, in all honesty, he wasn’t sure he could.  He’d done it, for three years, and throughout all that time, the only thing that kept him going was the thought that, when it was all over, John would be waiting.  Without that, he didn’t know how he’d have made it through all the cold, lonely nights, the nights when he’d just wanted to find a phone and call John, just to hear his voice, his laugh, his smile, his breath.  Anything.  If he had to leave John now, and never be able to come back to him, there was simply no way he’d survive.

For God’s sake, he couldn’t even _work_ without John anymore.  He didn’t know what it was, but something about John jump-started his brain, allowed him to make connections he never would have considered before.  Without John, he might as well be blind, for all he could observe anymore.  Christ, the day before he hadn’t even been able to deduce that Sally had dumped Anderson.  How he’d missed it, he didn’t know; half of the Yard alone had been talking about it.

Lestrade had noticed the sudden decline in Sherlock’s abilities.  He’d gone so far as to ask if Sherlock had fallen off the wagon, so to speak.  Then, on figuring out that Sherlock’s problem wasn’t drug-related, but John-related, had urged Sherlock to reconcile with him. As if that would do any good. Lestrade still held by his belief that John loved Sherlock.  Well, that had clearly been disproved, hadn’t it?

So here he was again, holed up in his room deleting everything for the seventh time.  He hoped this time it would stick.  The entire process was really getting tedious.  When he was finished double- and triple-checking, he cautiously headed out into the living room, where he’d left his laptop the previous night.

John was nowhere to be found.

But on the couch, sitting as nervously as you like, was Mary Morstan. 

“Your landlady let me in,” she explained quickly, as she saw the look of shock on his face and the question in his eyes.

The contrast between the woman who had left with John at the morgue and the woman who was sitting here on his couch now was astounding. Her make-up was perfect, not a hint of redness in her eyes or nose to indicate she’d been crying. There was a hardness in her face that spoke of anger, a desire to right wrongs, a search for an answer.

Sherlock stood stock still, staring – glaring – at her. “John’s not here,” he remarked icily.

“No, I know.  I’m here for you.”  She looked down at her hands, which were folded neatly, steadily, in her lap.  “John told me. . . .”

“Oh, yes, I’m sure you’ve all been having a right laugh, haven’t you?” Sherlock asked bitterly.  “Stupid, wasn’t it?  Thinking he could _ever_ want _me_.  Ridiculous.”

“You’re wrong,” Mary said, meeting his eyes. “You never gave him a chance to explain what happened.  He –”

“I _know_ what happened!”  Sherlock gripped the back of John’s armchair tightly, his knuckles whitening. He was itching to grab his violin and start screeching on it, but it was back in his room, too far away to retrieve it while keeping the fire fueling this conversation going. And he needed that fire right now. It seemed his attempts at deletion were, again, futile.  “ _You_ came along, just as we were starting to figure everything out, and stole him away from me!  He made his decision.  He chose _you._ There’s nothing else I can do.”

Mary nodded stonily.  “You’re right.  John was sweet, and I liked him.  There were signs that you two were a bit more than just interested, but John didn’t do anything to dissuade me, so I ignored them.”  She shrugged.  “When I like someone, I don’t hide it.  He threw out mixed signals and I took the chance.  But, believe me,” she said, “if I had known about you and him, I _never_ would have done anything.”

Sherlock’s hands clenched more tightly on the back of the chair.  He gritted his teeth as Mary continued.  “John didn’t choose me. He offered me comfort. I kissed him.  He stopped me and told me he had feelings for someone else. I apologized.  And then he left.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her.

“Why would I lie?” she asked. “If I’m lying, and I’ve already got John, then what would I be trying to accomplish this for? Lying is just going to make you even more upset and you’re still working on my sister’s case. That’s all I care about anymore. That, and cleaning up the mess you two made, because you’re both too stubborn to do it yourselves.”

Sherlock thought back over the past few days. John hadn’t made a single move, that he was aware of, to see Mary romantically.  Why?  John usually made an attempt to see his romantic interests at least every other day. And he hadn’t come out and stated that he’d picked Mary.  Sherlock had just assumed, what with the telltale signs of the kiss. . . .

What if he _was_ wrong?  Possible…. All of these emotions were clouding his judgment, his deductions.  How could he be so _stupid_ about all of this?

His fingers relaxed their grip on the chair, but his eyes narrowed at Mary, studying her, deducing her.  “Why do you care what happens between us?”

“You’re helping me find my sister’s killer. This is the least I can do.” She smiled ironically. “Besides, I’m a sucker for a happy ending. Maybe, in another time, another circumstance, John and I could have had something really amazing. But right now . . . he has you.”


	9. Chapter8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks again to Amincar for her help!

Sherlock was waiting for John on his bed when he got home.  He heard him downstairs, shuffling around the living room and kitchen – making tea; obvious – then listened as he trudged upstairs.  John nearly dropped the mug when he turned on the light, shocked to see Sherlock reclining comfortably on his bed in his pajamas and dressing gown.

“Sherlock!” John exclaimed.  He wiped the little bit of tea that spilled out of his cup on his jeans. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Hello, John.”

They were the first words they’d said to each other in days, and just from that, the tension in the room eased minutely.

“It seems there’s been a miscommunication,” Sherlock started.

John’s eyebrows rose.  He pulled out the chair to his desk and settled into it, clearly getting comfortable for what he assumed was going to be a long conversation. Sherlock scrutinized him. Hmm.  At the park, all day, walking and thinking.

“Mary came to see me.”

John swore, shaking his head. “I told her not to.”

“What I want to know is when you talked to her.”

“She called yesterday.  To find out how this had gone.  Said she needed a distraction.”

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully. John’s expression was completely neutral, unreadable, but there was a flash of something in his eyes. Expectancy?  Hope?  Sherlock couldn’t tell.  He’d lived with this man for three years, had studied him more than any one person he’d ever known, and still John managed to somehow remain a mystery.  John’s tongue poked out, wetting his lips, and suddenly Sherlock wanted to just say, “Fuck it all,” go over there, and capture that delectable mouth with his own, run his fingers through that neatly-cut blond hair, mussing it up beyond recognition.  He looked away, turning his gaze to the window.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Sherlock asked. He’d meant for the question to sound curious, but in truth it sounded slightly desperate, almost pleading.

“Why wouldn’t you _let_ me?” John responded.

Sherlock was startled into looking at John. He hadn’t been expecting _that_.  “What?”

“Sherlock, you _knew_ what had happened, but you never gave me a chance to _explain_.  You just made your deductions based on only _some_ of the facts, the ones you could see.”  John’s grip tightened on his mug of tea, which he seemed to have forgotten about. “Sherlock, you’re not dealing in the world of science anymore.  These are the humanities, and they require more than just observable evidence. This is _sub_ jective, not objective, and it takes _communication_ to make things work.  So, talk to me.  You pushed me away. Why?”

Sherlock drew his knees up to his chest, hugging his arms around them.  He’d never felt so vulnerable before.  John was seeing right through him, picking him apart with ease.  Was this what it felt like when he did it to everyone else? No wonder they all hated him.

John sighed.  He set the mug down on his desk, shucked off his shoes, and moved to the bed, sitting cross-legged in front of Sherlock.  “Someone hurt you,” he said, his voice nearing a whisper.

Sherlock nodded as a face flashed in his mind, one that he hadn’t let him think about for a long time.  “People. . . .  They don’t like me, John.  They never have. I was bullied so badly in school that Mummy had to pull me out and set me up with private tutors. I tried to retaliate to them the only way I could, exposing the secrets of their family lives. It only made things worse. But there was one person who made everything tolerable.

“His name was Victor Trevor.  He was a bit like you, actually,” Sherlock said with a small smile. “Honest.  Open.  Brave. Overprotective. He stood up for me more times than I can remember.  Despite that, everyone loved him.  He was friends with everyone, and I mean everyone.  But somehow, I was his best friend.”

Sherlock tightened his arms around his knees. He’d never told anyone about this, not even Mycroft, back when they got along.  It was so personal, so humiliating.  He felt John’s hand brush against his own.  Sherlock looked up at him to see a question in his eyes. _May I_? John must have gotten his answer, because a moment later he’d placed his hand on Sherlock’s knee, rubbing gently, comfortingly.

Sherlock continued.  “When we turned 15, suddenly our friendship shifted. He wanted more. I wanted acceptance, so I gave it to him.” At the look on John’s face, Sherlock quickly corrected, “No, we never did anything more than kiss. But I hadn’t even wanted that. I just didn’t think about him that way. I didn’t think about _anyone_ that way, not until. . . .”  Sherlock broke off, his cheeks reddening slightly.

“Anyway, he never pushed me, and he never told anyone about us.  He didn’t want people to know that he was gay.  For the next year, nothing changed.  Then, the following April, Victor’s dad was killed.  The police put it down as accidental.  We both saw it differently.  It turned out his dad had been murdered.  I solved the case, my first.  And Victor didn’t like what I dug up.  He avoided me for the next month.

“When I saw him again, he was with a group of boys who had always been exceedingly cruel to me.  They started catcalling at me; apparently Victor had told them that I’d come on to him.  They jeered and taunted, and eventually one of them broke through their lines and everything went physical then.  Victor hung back, and I kept waiting for him to do something, to stop them, but he didn’t. And when they were finally done, he came forward.  I looked into his eyes and there was nothing but hate and disgust on his features. He leaned in, grabbed the collar of my shirt and . . . I have never been able to delete what he said. ‘You didn’t think I actually wanted you, did you?  You’re a _freak_.  You don’t deserve love.’  They left me there, and I never saw him again.”

By the time Sherlock finally fell silent, John was seething.  His fingers dug into Sherlock’s knee, his teeth were gritted, and his expression was furious. “I’ll kill him,” he growled. “If I ever meet this guy, I’ll kill him for doing that to you.”

The absolute coldness in his voice made Sherlock shiver.  “You would shoot him?”

There was no warmth in the smile that John gave him. It was dark, twisted. Terrifying.  “Oh, I know much more creative ways to kill someone than with a gun. It’s one of the unmentioned perks of being an army doctor.”

It was terrifying, this side of John. Sherlock had never seen it before and had never even considered John capable of being so downright malicious. It was . . . terrifying, yes; he would have to remember to stay on John’s good side.  But, in a strange, twisted way, Sherlock was touched that John cared enough about him to despise someone who he’d never met, just for being cruel to Sherlock.

“You’re the first person I ever told.”

John’s expression softened.  He relaxed his hand, then dropped it to unclasp Sherlock’s knee. Sherlock shifted his position until he mirrored John, sitting cross-legged and leaning in.  John took Sherlock’s hands in his, covering them gently. “You don’t have anything to be embarrassed about.”

Here it was again.  John was so keyed into Sherlock’s emotions, more so than Sherlock even was.  How did he always know what Sherlock was feeling?  “He made me feel. . . .”  Sherlock racked his brain, trying to think of the right word.  “Ashamed.  It was the first time I ever felt ashamed of who I was.  Like I had no right to live.  Like I was worthless.  Like no one would ever choose me.”

He felt John squeeze his hands. John leaned forward slightly, his eyes intense.  “Sherlock, you are amazing.  You’re brilliant.” Sherlock opened his mouth to say that that was obvious, but John interrupted him.  “And I don’t mean smart.  I mean, you’re _brilliant_ , teeming with energy and life and curiosity, and just so _alive_. You’re _blinding_. And anyone who can’t see that, or makes you feel like you aren’t, is a fucking moron.  People like Victor Trevor, or bloody Anderson, aren’t worth your time or your consideration.”

Sherlock shook his head.  “I know, logically, that he only did it – said those things – because of the people he was with, but . . . they still hurt. Even now, the memory of it. . . .” Sherlock drew in a ragged breath. “I trusted him, John. More than I’ve ever trusted anyone, until. . . .”  He threw a meaningful glance at John.  “To have someone that I trusted like that and who cared about me say those things. . . . It was the worst kind of betrayal.”

John scooted closer and wrapped his arms around Sherlock, pulling him in to his chest.  Sherlock froze momentarily, then relaxed into John’s strong arms. He slid his own around John’s waist, clutching at the back of his jumper.  He buried his nose into John’s chest.  The familiar scent surrounded him, promised him loyalty, safety, acceptance. _Love_.

“I will _never_ do that to you, Sherlock.  Do you hear me?  _Never_ ,” he said adamantly.  John’s hand slid up into Sherlock’s hair, gently stroking the thick dark curls. “I want this, okay? I choose this. I choose _you_.”

Sherlock clamped his eyes shut. John didn’t mean that. He couldn’t.  Sherlock was damaged, broken, undesirable. He destroyed everything he touched. He would destroy John, too, given enough time.  John deserved better. “Why?” he asked, his voice small.

“Why?” John repeated with a frustrated chuckle. He pulled away, but didn’t move his hand from Sherlock’s hair.  His other hand reached up, brushing along Sherlock’s cheekbone.  “I don’t know.  Because you saved me.  Because you drive me up the wall.  Because you’re a genius. Because you behave like a whiny eight-year-old.  Because you drag me all over London to hunt down criminals.  Because you have a special smile that you reserve for me and only I get to see it.”  He paused here, allowing a heated silence to set in between them before continuing in a whisper, “But mostly because I love you.”

Sherlock was already halfway there when John started leaning in.  Their lips met, but this kiss was different from any of the others they’d shared.  It was gentle, caressing.  They brushed together lightly at first, then fully.  John ran his tongue along Sherlock’s bottom lip, coaxing his mouth open.  Sherlock moaned as John’s tongue slid in, sweetly moving against his own.  John’s hand drifted down from Sherlock’s hair to the back of his neck.  His fingers stroked along the skin slowly.

There was no urgency in their movements. The kiss was languid, but still full of heat.  It was fuller, somehow, more meaningful.  Sherlock felt more connected to John right in this moment than he ever had with anyone before. It was . . . _amazing_.

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock murmured against John’s lips.  He pulled back a fraction.  “Don’t. . . .” His throat was thick and he cleared it. “Don’t ever leave me,” he said breathlessly. 

“Never,” John promised. 

They joined together again into a gentle embrace. Sherlock felt John pouring everything into him through the kiss and tried to do the same.  Everything he’d spent the last three days trying to delete went into the kiss, only to come back to him from John.  And in between everything, filling up the cracks, and passing freely between the two of them was so much love that Sherlock didn’t know how it had taken them both so long to see it.

Eventually they found themselves under the covers, wrapped up in each other.  Occasionally their lips would find each other again and that slow, sweet kiss would overtake them, but they were mostly content to lie there together until they finally drifted off to sleep.

* * *

John watched as Sherlock zipped around the hotel room where Nancy Barclay’s body had been found.  His energy, it seemed, had been replenished, so much so that he’d had three epiphanies about the case today, none of which he deemed it necessary to share yet.

The hotel room, surprisingly, hadn’t been cleaned yet. It was still a crime scene, police tape across the door, shielding the disaster that was inside.  The floor was littered with broken glass that they stepped gingerly around.  The covers on the queen-sized bed were tangled and twisted. There was a spatter of blood against one of the walls and one of the windows had been broken from the inside out.

Nancy had been strangled, that much was obvious from the body.  But what wasn’t obvious was why.  Why would she turn up dead – murdered – after disappearing with her former fiancé? It didn’t make any sense.

“John!”

He jumped.  Sherlock had disappeared into the bathroom and was shouting for him. He rolled his eyes and followed the sound of deductions spewing from it.  Sherlock’s rear end poking out of the cupboard under the sink greeted him cheerfully. He smirked.  It really was a nice arse, wasn’t it?

A scoff pulled his eyes away from it and to Sherlock’s face, turned toward him from inside the cupboard, his neck twisted at what looked like an extremely uncomfortable angle.  “Really, John?”

“It’s right there,” John explained with a shrug, gesturing at the offending body part unnecessarily.

Sherlock just rolled his eyes, but John didn’t miss the half smile that twitched at his mouth.  He pulled his head out of the cupboard and pointed inside. “Have a look.”

John shot him a withering look. “I thought we established that we weren’t going to do this anymore.”

“John.”  Sherlock’s tone was condescending.  He sighed theatrically.  “Just look. It’s pretty obvious.”

John sighed as well, but ducked down to look, anyway, grumbling, “What’s obvious to you isn’t usually obvious to the rest of us.”  But it soon became clear to what Sherlock was referring to.  “Handcuffs?” John asked, giving them an experimental tug.  One of the cuffs was attached to the pipe leading from the sink to the floor, while the other hung down, open and free. “He _did_ kidnap her.”

Sherlock nodded gleefully.  “He cuffed her in here, probably to her left wrist so she could use the toilet if she needed to and could move around a bit. He did profess to love her, after all. And that’s not all.” He held up a small black bobby pin. “She picked the lock, and pretended to be chained up whenever he came in.  That’s why there were no marks on her wrist.”

John took the bobby pin from Sherlock, inspecting it. “Brilliant.  She was brilliant.”

“He must have come back while she was trying to escape. She ran out of the bathroom,” Sherlock explained, leaping up and tracing her steps, John following behind, “to the window, which was locked.”  Sherlock pulled away the drapes, revealing the indeed locked window. “Rather than trying to unlock it, she grabbed the closest object – this lamp – and broke the window. He grabbed her while she was halfway out, hence the blood spatter and the cuts on her hands and arms, and strangled her.  Fantastic!”

Sherlock eyes were bright with exhilaration. He threw himself at John, planting a sloppy kiss on him.  “Thank you, John!”

John was taken aback.  “What did I do?”

Sherlock grinned at him.  “You helped me think, obviously.”  He pulled out his phone.  “Call Mary and warn her that Henry Wood is coming for her.”

* * *

Mary didn’t answer.  Twice.  Three times. Four.  John called again in the cab.  Still no answer.  “Why is he coming after her again?”

“Covering his tracks,” Sherlock explained. “He thinks Nancy told Mary something about their affair and is trying to tie up all the loose ends.”

“Fuck,” John muttered, as the call once again went to voicemail.  “Why did he wait three days?  You’d think he’d want to take care of it right away.  Not that I’m wishing he did, mind you.”

“He’s a patient man, isn’t he? Had a secret affair for eleven years before taking care of her husband.  He’s been waiting for the opportune moment.  Mary’s had people crawling about her flat for days.  Police, friends, you.  Hasn’t been an opportune moment.”

“You don’t think she’s already. . . ?”

Sherlock didn’t answer.

Finally, after what felt like years, the cab pulled up at Mary’s building.  They threw some bills at the cabbie and burst through the unlocked door. John led the way up the stairs to the second floor, where Mary’s flat was located.  The door was unlocked.  With a grim look at Sherlock, he pushed it open.

Mary was seated in the middle of her living room on one of her kitchen chairs, bound with her mouth covered with duct tape. Her eyes widened at the sight of them and she tried to kick her legs, yelling something that was muffled by the tape over her mouth. 

They heard a laugh from behind them. “Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. I’ve been expecting you.”

John felt a sharp pain on his head, and then everything went black.


	10. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to the fabulous Amincar for all her help!

The first thing Sherlock was aware of was that his head was pounding, _aching_ , his thoughts fuzzy and sluggish.  As his mind slowly began to clear, he realized that the tickle he felt running down his face was blood slowly dripping out of a wound on his forehead.  His hands were tied behind his back, his arms bound close to his body, and his feet tied to the legs of the chairs.  He tested the restraints before opening his eyes. Strong, as he knew they would be. Wood had been a fisherman, after all. The realization slowly dawned on him that there would be no escaping from these knots.

Slowly, he opened his eyes, blinded by the brightness of the flat.  Mary’s walls and carpet were white, and they reflected the sharp light of the sun streaming in through the large window.  The contrast between the lightness of the flat and the disparity of their situation was disconcerting.

Sherlock looked around.  Mary was seated to his left.  She was still conscious, her eyes wide.  She had a darkening bruise on her face, but seemed otherwise unhurt. John had been tied to a chair across from them, facing them.  His head lolled on his chest, revealing his graying blond hair to be matted with blood from where Wood had hit him.  Rage suddenly pulsed in his blood at the sight, but he forced it back. It would do none of them any good at the moment.  For some reason, John had been spared the duct-taped mouth.

Wood, himself, was nowhere to be seen. Sherlock threw a look to Mary, neither of them able to talk with the tape over their mouths, that clearly asked, _Where is he_? She shook her head and shrugged as well as she was able to with the tight binds.

There was the unmistakable sound of a key in the door, then the sound of the door handle turning.  Footsteps paused as Wood closed and relocked the door. Sherlock twisted his neck around to catch a glimpse of him, but he needn’t have bothered.  Wood strode confidently into view, despite requiring the aid of a cane, gazing proudly at his handiwork.

“Mr. Holmes.  Awake at last.”  Sherlock sent his best glare at Wood, who just smiled.  “You know, I don’t think I’ll take that tape off just yet.  I’ve heard how much you just _love_ to talk.” 

He meandered over to John, grabbing John’s hair to pull his head up and studying his slack features.  “What do you think?” he asked Sherlock.  “Time to wake up the good doctor?”

He went into what must be the kitchen. Sherlock heard the sounds of cupboards being opened and then the tap running.  He returned with a large glass of water, which he didn’t hesitate to splash carelessly into John’s face.  John woke with a start, spluttering and straining against the knots.

“Doctor Watson, how kind of you to finally join us,” Wood said, circling around in front of him. 

John caught his eye with a glare, realized the futility of fighting against the restraints.  He sat back with an annoyed look that clearly showed just how sick of being taken hostage he was.  His eyes flicked between Sherlock and Mary, taking in any signs of injuries. “Are you all right?” he asked the two of them.  They nodded.

“Touching,” Wood commented with false sincerity. “But let’s move on, shall we? I’m sure you’re wondering what this is all about, yes?  Why I didn’t just kill Mary? That _is_ who you think I’m after, isn’t it?”

Mary gave a small whimper at that. Sherlock made a muffled sound against the tape over his mouth, wishing he could declare that he _had_ figured out what this was all about. Because there really was only one possibility.  Wood had managed to remain “dead” for 11 years, seemingly without the resources or the intelligence to do so.  He’d obviously had help. Add that to the obvious ease with which he killed, and it led to one thing.  One person, rather.

“You see, I was happy with my set-up. I had a perfect deal made. No one would find out that I was still alive and I could see Nancy as often or as little as I wanted to. And in return, I just had to fill my monthly quota.”

“Quota?” John asked.  “You mean . . . murders.”  John sighed dramatically, rolling his eyes.  “Don’t tell me.  Mori- _bloody_ -arty.  I thought you took care of all his little groupies,” John said with a pointed look at Sherlock.

“Well, Sherlock?” Wood asked. He grabbed a handful of Sherlock’s hair as leverage and ripped off the duct tape.  “Explain yourself.”

Sherlock forced himself not to show any signs of pain as the tape ripped off some of the stubble that he’d not had time to shave off that day.  “Oh, I did. Anyone Moriarty deemed important enough to keep tabs on.  I guess you just didn’t make the cut,” Sherlock said with a nasty smile.

Wood narrowed his eyes at Sherlock. He sauntered over to John, smirking. He slid his hand up John’s cheek and into his hair.  John tried to jerk away, but Wood’s other hand came up to his jaw, holding his head in place. Sherlock clenched his jaw tightly together.  John was _his_ now, and _no one_ should be touching him like that, least of all this madman.

“Oh, everything was fine until, suddenly, the boss got bored of his old playmates.  He wanted a new one.”  He circled around John, letting his fingers trail through John’s hair, and stopped behind him. “And there you were, so _accomplished_ , making a name for yourself. He’d been watching you for a while, you know.  Watching until you were ready to join the game.  And suddenly he didn’t have time for the little people anymore.  No, it was all about _Sherlock Holmes_.”

John gasped as Wood’s fingers dug into his skull, right in the spot he’d been hit.  “And then he died, just to win the game.  Just to beat _you_.  Leaving all the little people behind.  And he would have won, wouldn’t he?  But _you_. . . .” Wood scraped his surprisingly long nails along John’s jaw, drawing blood and watching for Sherlock’s reaction. “ _You_ didn’t play by the rules, did you?”

John’s shoulder were rigid with tension, but he kept his voice surprisingly calm as he said, “It’s been three years. Moriarty’s gone, and so is his organization.  It’s time to move on, mate.”

“See, there’s where you’re wrong, Johnny-boy.” Wood circled back around, pulling John’s head back to stare up at him.  “See, Moriarty is. . . .  Well, he’s kind of like Dumbledore. As long as there are those who remain loyal, and all that.”

The name registered vaguely in Sherlock’s brain from the night John had forced him to sit down and watch the first Harry Potter movie, but he couldn’t see how the kindly old man in the movie was anything like Moriarty.  Judging from John’s expression, he didn’t either.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” John spat. Wood had apparently used up John’s allotted patience for the day.  “Moriarty was deranged, and you are, too.”

Without warning, Wood swung his fist back and punched him.  John managed to dodge quickly enough to avoid a broken nose, but his cheek wasn’t so lucky. It was already darkening with a bruise that promised to be impressive tomorrow.  Providing they lived to see tomorrow.

Wood twisted John’s head to the side, inspecting the rapidly growing bruise.  He stroked a finger over it, then abruptly released him.  “I would _think_ next time before you speak out of turn, Doctor Watson.  Wouldn’t want to damage that face that Sherlock loves so much, now would we?”

He pulled up a chair centered to the side of the three captives and sat in it with a sigh, stretching out his bad leg. “Now, where were we? Oh, yes, the fake death.” Wood tsk-ed, shaking his head. “There was no need to be a sore loser, Sherlock.  It was just a game.”

“It stopped being a game the moment Moriarty threatened John’s life,” Sherlock snapped.  “He signed his own death sentence with that move.”

“Oh, and speaking of John’s life!” Wood said, standing again. “Since you didn’t actually die. . . . Well, I think you get where I’m going with this.  Since there’s no one else left, I guess that leaves it up to me to follow through with the boss’ plans, don’t you think?”  He reached into his pocket and drew out a switchblade, flipping it open.  “It’s a bit messy, but the messier the more fun it is sometimes, eh?”

Panic filled Sherlock as Wood descended on John, pressing the blade to his throat.  John strained back, but there was nowhere for him to go.  Sherlock pulled frantically at the knots around his wrist, feeling his skin go raw from rubbing against the rope, but they were no looser than when he’d first woken up. 

“Don’t you _dare_ ,” Sherlock growled.  He watched as John’s breathing quickly increased, the fear on his features evident. John looked past Wood, catching Sherlock’s eye, and the look that he sent him made the bottom of his stomach drop.

_It’s not your fault_ , he seemed to be saying.  _I wouldn’t have missed this for the world.  Thank you. I love you.  I_ love _you._

Wood pressed the knife further into John’s neck and a drop of blood oozed out from the small cut he made.  He grinned and pulled away.  “No, before I kill Johnny here, Mary needs to be taken care of.” He shrugged apologetically as she automatically tried to shrink away, her eyes widening.  “Sorry, love, it’s nothing personal.  You just know too much, now.  And you need to go before John, because sorry to say, Sherlock’s not going to care very much when you die.  John, here, will, though.”

He advanced on her, grabbing a handful of hair and yanking off the tape covering her mouth.  Sherlock’s attention was momentarily pulled away by movement out of the corner of his eye.  He watched curiously as John’s arms shifted up and down repeatedly.  He started to shake his head, to indicate that it was no good, when suddenly John’s arms were free.  Sherlock saw the flash of a small pocketknife as John went to work on the other ropes tying him to the chair.

Sherlock turned his attention back to the desperate situation unfolding next to him.  Wood was running the point of the switchblade down the side of Mary’s face, leaving a trail of blood oozing quickly out in its wake. “So, any last words?”

Mary’s breaths were coming in quick gasps, but she somehow managed to whisper, “We were friends.”

“Like I said, it’s nothing personal,” Wood repeated matter of factly.

He raised the blade to her throat, but before he could do anything, John was on him, pulling his arm back and trying to twist it around behind his back.  Mary let out a small shriek as Wood toppled into her from the unexpected weight. John held on tightly as the three of them crashed to the floor, then struggled against Wood’s larger size.

In the end, and rather spectacularly quickly, John’s army training won out over Wood’s raw strength.  He flexed his hand on Wood’s wrist, and he dropped the knife. John flipped him onto his stomach in a practiced move, pinning his arms behind his back one-handed. The other hand grabbed a fistful of hair, lifted up his head, then slammed it down repeatedly until Wood finally fell unconscious.  He quickly stood and retrieved the length of rope that Wood had discarded after he’d finished tying them up, efficiently binding his arms and legs. 

After a quick glance at Sherlock that told him he could wait until later, John rushed to Mary.  “Are you okay?”

“My arm,” she whimpered.

John carefully righted the chair and ran his hands gently along Mary’s arm, which had been crushed between the floor and the edge of the chair back when it fell.  Sherlock saw her wince and heard John’s sharp intake of breath. “It’s fractured,” he said. “I’m going to untie you, but try not to move too much, all right?”  She nodded.

Within moments she was free, but she followed the directions John had given her obediently.  He slowly moved her arm around the front of her body, letting it sit on her lap. His eyes swept the room, but finding nothing to use as a makeshift splint, he just said, “Keep your arm on your lap. Don’t move it.”

Before John could turn to him, Sherlock said, “Just leave me.  Call Lestrade. Watch him.”  John hesitated.  “I’m _fine_ , John. I just don’t trust myself to not kill him right now.”

* * *

The next two hours passed in a blur of questions and statements given, and one very harrowing moment after Wood woke up and managed to break away from the officers escorting him out, during which he managed to leap onto John and enclose John’s neck with his tied-up hands. It had taken four officers and an enraged Sherlock to pry him away and escort him to a police car. Mary was bundled safely away in an ambulance, John had quietly explained to Sherlock the pocket he’d sown on to the inside of his jacket sleeve and the pocketknife he’d taken to carrying around with him in it for safety, and finally, after they had both given their statements to Lestrade, and John had been checked over for any damage done by the second attack, that they were finally free to go home.

“For the last time, Sherlock, I’m _fine_ ,” John said, exasperated, as Sherlock once again felt the need to overcompensate for him, this time by pulling off John’s coat for him and tossing it on the arm of the couch.  “What are you doing?”

Sherlock was pulling John insistently toward the kitchen.  John thought that perhaps Sherlock was going to demand some tea, but he didn’t stop, continuing on to his bedroom.  John had been in Sherlock’s bedroom before, a few times, and each time it always struck him how absolutely lacking in clutter it was.  His clothes were neatly put away in his closet and dresser, the bed made, and the desk was organized so precisely that it didn’t look like it was ever used. Obviously Sherlock’s distaste for cleaning didn’t extend to his own personal living space.

Once inside, Sherlock pulled John into a tight embrace. John froze slightly in shock, then relaxed into it.  Sherlock’s hands roved up and down his back, his sides, and into his hair, until finally they found their way under John’s jumper and undershirt.  Sherlock grasped the hems of the two shirts and broke the embrace to drag them up and off John.

“No, really, Sherlock.  What are you doing?” John asked again as Sherlock started on his own shirt.

Sherlock discarded his shirt and advanced on John. He took a step back, but his legs bumped against the foot of the bed, and he fell back onto it. He scooted up it slightly as Sherlock stretched his length on top of him. 

“I need to know,” Sherlock mumbled, pressing his lips against John’s bruised cheek, the exact spot where Wood’s punch had landed.  He felt John’s sharp intake of breath and pulled away.  “Sorry.”

John shook his head, dismissing the pain. He let his hands trail up Sherlock’s sides, then wrap around his back, feeling the muscles rippling as Sherlock adjusted his position, holding his weight up over John with his forearms. “Know what?” John asked.

John shivered as he felt Sherlock’s breath tickle his ear.  “That you’re alive,” Sherlock murmured.  “That you’re here. That you’re –”

Sherlock broke off and pulled back, his expression suddenly uncertain.  “I’m yours,” John said, answering the unfinished question.  He reached up, placing his hand on Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock leaned in to the touch, his eyes drifting closed.  “For as long as you want me.  For as long as I’m alive. I’m yours.”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open. “John.  Today, he was going to. . . .  If he had. . . .  I don’t think I could –”  He took a deep breath, then started again.  “John, those three years without you. . . . The only thing that kept me going was knowing that when I was done, you would be here, waiting for me to come home.  If our roles had been reversed, and I had thought you had died. . . .  I don’t think I could have made it without you.”

“Sherlock. . . .”  John didn’t know what to say.  The truth was, for those three years, he didn’t really think he _had_ made it through.  The first year he’d spent so in a haze that he didn’t even remember it, and when he came out of the haze, he’d been so numb and uncaring that nothing had mattered.  He’d tried pretending for a while, but he hadn’t fooled anyone, least of all himself. Eventually, his life consisted of waking up, going to work, coming home, and staring blankly at the telly, interspersed with occasional visits from Lestrade and the even fewer visits from Harry. He’d lost touch completely with Mrs. Hudson, which he still wasn’t sure she had completely forgiven him for yet. Yes, he was alive, but without Sherlock it was like those first few months after he’d been discharged. He felt nothing. He had no desire to do anything. He saw no point in trying. He was alive, but might as well have been dead.

“John, what. . . .”  Sherlock’s eyes flickered away, then back to John’s again. “What I think I’m trying to say is. . . .”  John waited patiently as Sherlock bit his lip.  He couldn’t remember Sherlock ever looking so vulnerable, his eyes open wide, his curls falling haphazardly onto his forehead, his teeth sinking in to that full bottom lip. “Is . . . I love you.”

For a moment, John didn’t think he’d heard Sherlock right.  Could this really be happening?  Could the great Sherlock Holmes, the only consulting detective in the world, a self-proclaimed sociopath – though John didn’t believe that for a second – really be admitting to having an emotional connection to someone?  And more than just an emotional connection.  Actually _loving_ someone?

But the hopeful look in Sherlock’s eyes as he looked down at John and the slight tremble in his lips was evidence enough that he _had_ said it. And, though John had told him before, last night, in fact, that the feelings were returned, it seemed that Sherlock needed to hear it again.

And, well, who was John to deny him anything?


	11. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to Amincar for her beta skills!

“I love you, too,” John said, a dopey smile slowly spreading across his face.

Sherlock returned the smile as his eyes filled with relief.  John’s hands crept up into his hair and pulled his head down.  Their lips met tenderly at first, as they had the night before, but heat quickly rose between them.  Steady breaths turned into gasps, caresses hardened into clenches, and their bodies rubbing together created a delicious friction aided by trembling limbs and sweat.

Sherlock’s mouth soon abandoned John’s, turning instead to suck on John’s neck.  John turned his head to accommodate him with a groan, his fingers tightening in Sherlock’s hair.  Sherlock raked his teeth down John’s neck before circling his tongue around John’s nipple. John let out a surprised squeal that made Sherlock raise his head, his eyebrows lifted.

John tugged at his hair.  “Don’t bloody _stop_ , you idiot.”

Sherlock clamped his lips down on John’s nipple with a chuckle that reverberated through John’s entire body. He dragged his nails down Sherlock’s back causing a shudder to ripple through Sherlock.  John moaned as Sherlock’s tongue worked wonders on him, a tongue so talented that was capable of tearing a man to pieces in seconds, or building him up just as quickly with only words.  Dazedly, John realized that that was exactly what Sherlock was doing simultaneously to him, at that moment.

John moaned again as Sherlock’s knee inched its way in between John’s legs, rubbing mercilessly against John’s arousal. He glanced down, catching the smirk that twisted Sherlock’s lips.  An immediate feeling of defiance rose in him.  Sherlock had been in control long enough. It was time to show him exactly what Captain John Watson was capable of.

With a practiced swiftness and ease that had only come through years of self-defense training from the army, John tightened his arms around Sherlock, locked his legs on either side of his hips, and rolled. He managed to register the look of surprise on Sherlock’s face before he shut his eyes and began to ravish Sherlock’s mouth.  He sucked and bit Sherlock’s bottom lip as Sherlock writhed beneath him, then took the opportunity to shift his position.  John lifted his hips and nudged Sherlock’s legs apart, settling himself between them comfortably. Sherlock’s hips rose to meet his and John rocked his own devilishly.  The resulting sensation elicited such a deep moan from Sherlock that John didn’t hear it as much as felt it rumbling through him.

John broke away long enough to groan, “ _God_ , Sherlock,” and then immediately lowered his head again, this time letting his lips land on the corner of Sherlock’s clavicle, right at the base of his throat.  While one of his hands was still in Sherlock’s hair, his other slid up the pale expanse of Sherlock’s taut stomach and rubbed lightly over Sherlock’s nipple. Sherlock’s back arched at the touch and John teased the small nub of flesh until Sherlock was panting beneath him, then moved to the other, circling around it teasingly.

John licked up the side of Sherlock’s throat, pausing to lap briefly at his Adam’s apple, then continued his way along Sherlock’s jawline. He stopped when he reached his ear, sucking his earlobe into his mouth.  By now, Sherlock was arching his back, making small whimpering sounds that John had never even known he was capable of.  John rocked his hips and Shelrock dug his fingers so deeply into John’s back that he knew Sherlock’s fingernails had broken the skin.

“John,” he rasped, his voice breathless.

“Hmm?” John hummed, still nibbling on Sherlock’s earlobe. 

Sherlock seemed to be having difficulty swallowing. “John,” he said again, his voice thick and deep.  “John, _please_.”

John smiled and released his earlobe. He ran his tongue around the edge of Sherlock’s ear, then, curious, flicked it inside. Sherlock yelped and jerked beneath him. John grinned again and repeated the gesture, this time lingering for longer inside his ear.  Judging by the strangled noises Sherlock was emanating, he rather liked that.

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock whimpered.

Feeling merciful, John relinquished and pulled his tongue out, but didn’t back away.  “Please what?” he purred.  He dropped light kisses along the line of Sherlock’s jaw, then one on his mouth, and pulled back, waiting and watching.

Sherlock was completely taken to pieces. His normally pale cheeks were flushed red, his eyes hazy and glazed over, his mouth open in a small pout as he drew in ragged breaths.  His curls clung, damp with sweat, on his forehead and spread across the sheets. He was absolutely stunning.

And he was all John’s.

“Please,” he said again.  “I need you.”

John pressed a small kiss to his mouth again. “I’m yours.”

Sherlock shook his head, though he seemed to appreciate the sentiment, if the look in his eyes was any indication. He rocked his hips up against John’s, causing them both to groan.  “I _need_ you.”

Comprehension dawned.  “You want me to. . . .”  Sherlock nodded, then lifted his head up to nip at John’s lips.

John was taken aback.  Sherlock was always so controlling, so domineering, that John had just assumed he’d be a natural top.  But he had seemed to enjoy John taking the lead in this, and was eager for that to continue.

“Do you have. . . ?”

“Top drawer.”  His cheeks flushed in embarrassment.  “I thought I’d better. . . .  Just in case.”

John nodded in approval.  “Always five steps ahead,” he said fondly. He crawled off Sherlock to reach into the drawer.  “Trousers and pants, off,” he barked, and Sherlock scrambled to obey. 

John retrieved the lube and a condom and quickly shucked off his own clothes.  When John turned back, Sherlock was nude and stretched out, waiting patiently – surprisingly – for John’s return.  John crawled back over with what he could only imagine was a predatory smile on his face. He saw Sherlock shiver at his expression.

He perched himself over Sherlock, kneeling with his knees straddling Sherlock’s hips and his hands holding up his torso on either side of Sherlock’s head.  He dipped his head down and Sherlock’s came up to meet his, but at the last second he pulled away, hovering above his lips.  He smirked.

“I could fuck you from behind,” he said, feigning thoughtfulness.  “That would be easiest.” 

Sherlock strained his neck upwards, reaching for John’s lips, but John pulled them away.  He grabbed Sherlock’s wrists as he tried to reach up to pull John’s head down and held them down on the bed above Sherlock’s head. Sherlock groaned in frustration.

John leaned in more closely, stopping centimeters from Sherlock’s mouth, but Sherlock stayed put this time. John grinned and rewarded him with a peck on the lips. 

“I’d like to see your face, though,” he said. “When I make you come. I don’t know.” John sat back, sitting fully on Sherlock’s lap.  “What do you think?”

“I think –”  He groaned as John shifted and their cocks rubbed together. “Your decision,” he managed to choke out.  “Just please.”

John hummed in approval.  Sherlock was turning out to be surprisingly submissive in the bedroom, and, if John was perfectly honest, it was rather an enormous turn on. To take someone normally so domineering of not only yourself, but everyone around him, and turn him into a trembling heap of a person and still have him begging for more. . . . It was riveting.

But there would be time to play with that later. John bent forwards again, this time allowing their lips to meld together desperately until they were both gasping for air.  “Face-to-face, I think,” John murmured.  He nudged at Sherlock’s thighs again.  “Legs.” Sherlock spread them apart at once, bending his knees.  John kneeled between them, slid the condom on himself with practiced movements, and sat back.

Sherlock’s head was propped up with a pillow and he stared back at John with an indiscernible expression on his face. He looked a bit nervous, but there was undeniable excitement reflecting in his eyes, as well as anticipation for what was to come.  John licked his lips and opened the bottle of lube.

* * *

Sherlock’s back arched and he let out a loud groan, a strange mixture of pain and pleasure, when John inserted his finger into him.  John paused, splaying his hand across Sherlock’s abdomen.

“All right?”

Sherlock nodded.  “God, John,” he spluttered.  “Yes.”

John resumed his careful movements. Sherlock bit his lip at the strange sensation.  It hurt, sort of. Of course it did. And the pressure was odd. New.  But when John started stroking him right

_There_.

He couldn’t think.  What was

John’s finger.

_Oh_.

Sherlock scrambled to grab hold of something, anything, as John added a second slippery finger.  His hands clenched around the sheets.  _Not enough_. The headboard. _Not enough_. 

He was suddenly aware of John’s lips on his own. He reached up and closed a fist in John’s hair, which was just long enough for that, and wrapped the other around his narrow waist.  He bit down hard on John’s lip, hard enough for John to gasp, but he didn’t pull away.

Sherlock whimpered as John introduced a third finger inside him.  He gripped John’s hair so tightly that he felt several strands come loose in his hands. John pulled back slightly, a question in his eyes. 

“Yes, I’m f–”  He shuddered as John gave his fingers a slight twist. “For the love of God, don’t stop.”

John leaned back in and this time clamped his lips down on Sherlock’s neck.  Sherlock craned his neck up against it and John bit down, then ran his tongue over the sore spot.  He sucked on it, interspersing small nibbles occasionally.  There would undoubtedly be a mark there later, but Sherlock didn’t care. It marked him as belonging to John, and he loved it.

John finally released his neck and brought his lips to Sherlock’s ear.  “Ready?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

Sherlock nodded frantically, clinging to John’s neck. “Yes, please, John. _Now_ , please.”  The desperation in his voice was alarming.  How had John managed to undo him so thoroughly?

John slid down Sherlock’s body leisurely, laying kisses as he went.  He sat up slowly, kneeling in between Sherlock’s legs.  He squirted some more lubricant into his palm and prepared himself quickly, wiped his hands on the sheets – they would need to be washed anyway – then grasped Sherlock’s narrow hips.  He slid his hands around the back and down Sherlock’s smooth buttocks, spreading him open slightly.

Sherlock grabbed at the sheets twisted beneath him as John slid inside.  An involuntary moan escaped his lips.  John hovered over him, his hands gripping Sherlock’s forearms tightly.  His arms were shaking and he seemed to be holding a breath in.

“John,” Sherlock groaned, wriggling his hips against him.

John’s eyes flew open at that. “Just trying to. . . .” He bent over Sherlock, putting all his weight on his forearms and shifted his hips, stretching his legs out behind him. “. . . Compose myself.”

John let out a breath and started moving his hips slowly.  Sherlock’s hands reached up, curling under John’s armpits and around, grabbing desperately at his shoulders and neck.  The moans were almost constant now.  He couldn’t stop them from vibrating out of him.  He didn’t think he would if he could, because John seemed to be responding to them viscerally.

Although, to be honest, he couldn’t really think at all, at the moment.  The sensation as John moved inside him was. . . .  He didn’t know how to describe it.  All he was aware of was that it felt so _good_ , especially when John shifted and suddenly he was hitting him right in the

_Oh yes, right there_

Every time.

_Not enough_.

And the sounds he was making couldn’t be human, could they?

_More_.

His head was empty, all thoughts gone except for

_More, John_.

And John was moving faster, his breaths growing ragged.

_John,_ fuck.

And suddenly he realized he was speaking out loud and it didn’t matter.  All that mattered was

“Fuck me.  More. _More_ , John.” 

His fingernails scraped along John’s back as he felt John’s hand curl around his throbbing cock, already leaking precum from the tip. Desire ripped through him and he didn’t think he could take more, but

_God_ he wanted more.  He wanted it all.

Heat pooled in his belly.  He thrust his hips up into John’s hand, which was working magic on him.  Really it had to be magic. He was certain that he had known the chemical processes involved in sex, had had sex before, but it had never felt _like this._ There was no other explanation for the things it was doing to him right now. 

“ _Sherlock_ ,” John moaned, so close to his ear, so full of desire and pleasure and need and love that rippled through him.

It was too much.

He came with a strangled cry, clutching at John. John came moments later, his orgasm seemingly fueled by Sherlock’s reaction.  John groaned and collapsed on top of Sherlock, who dazedly trailed his fingers down John’s back, feeling the slight ridges where his nails had scraped away several layers of skin.  John kissed him softly, then rolled over onto his back.

“There’re towels in the bottom drawer,” Sherlock said breathlessly, gesturing to his bedside cabinet.

John leaned over and retrieved one, cleaning off the mixture of sweat, lube, and come that coated them.  He tossed it carelessly onto the floor.  Sherlock scooted around on the bed lazily for a few moments before finally managing to pull the duvet over them.  He turned onto his side to face John, who seemed vaguely unsure of what was going to happen now.  His eyes flicked to the door and back to Sherlock, his mouth opening partially with the desire to ask his question, then closing abruptly.

Sherlock took one of John’s hands in his own. “Stay,” he said, inching closer.

He opened his eyes to see John smiling at him. “You’re sure?” John asked. “No randomly changing your mind after this?  Because I’m in this. I’m not going to hurt you, not again. And I meant what I said before. I’m here for as long as you want me.”

Sherlock felt a swell of emotion he was only just beginning to name sweep over him.  “Yes. Of course.”

John pushed himself up on his elbow, leaning over Sherlock.  “Good. And I think this needs to be said, too: this isn’t just about sex.  Not for me, at least.”  He placed his hand on Sherlock’s chest, his fingers splaying out over the hard muscle. “I love you,” he said, placing an emphasis on each word.  “And I know you hate the concept of relationships, so I won’t use the term.” Sherlock shuddered dramatically and John chuckled.  “But _this_ is what I want. Closeness.  Intimacy.  Affection. Are you okay with that?”

“Yes.” 

The immediate answer surprised both of them. But, Sherlock thought, why? It was what he had wanted before, before everything became a great big mess.  It would be stupid to ignore his desires any longer.

But that didn’t mean he had to ooze on about it.

“Yes, obviously, John,” Sherlock said dryly, rolling his eyes and sinking back into his familiar aloof character. “Now please. We’ve established both of our feelings on the matter, so can we move on?”

John grinned and sank back down onto the bed. Their hands were still clasped together, but John allowed Sherlock enough space so that they weren’t touching. His eyes drooped wearily, and he fought back a yawn.

Sherlock watched John until he finally succumbed to the infamous post-coital – and post-kidnapping – slumber. Then, when he could bear it no more, he scooted towards him, wrapping his arm around John’s waist, pulling them together.  He settled his head so close to John’s that their foreheads were touching and let his eyes drift shut.

“I love you, too,” he breathed.

Then he, too, gave in to the exhaustion that was engulfing him, missing the small half-smile that twitched on John’s lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading and enjoying this story enough to stick with it! This is the final full chapter, but don't worry, I will be posting the epilogue on Friday. Thank you especially to everyone who left kudos or comments! You lovely people are so inspiring!


	12. Epilogue: Fourteen Months Later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here it is (a day late; so sorry!). I hope you enjoyed this, and thank you to everyone who left kudos or comments! I appreciate it so much. And of course a great big thank you to Amincar for all her suggestions which did so much to improve the quality of this story!

John woke with a raging hard-on.

He groaned, suddenly aware of hot lips on the back of his neck.  “Sherlock,” he moaned.

He felt the lips curl into a smile against his skin. “Morning.”  Sherlock slid his hand over John’s hip, leaving a trail of fire across his skin. 

In the past year, he’d woken to this more days than he hadn’t.  Sherlock had turned out to be surprisingly insatiable.  “As much as I like waking up to this,” John said, twisting at the waist to look behind him, “we have to get up and get ready.”

“Mmmm.”  Sherlock nuzzled his nose against John’s neck.  “We don’t have to go, do we?”

John smiled.  “I know you hate weddings, but yes.  We have to go.”

Sherlock pressed his lips against John’s. John reached behind him, slipping his hand up into Sherlock’s messy curls.  “You taste horrible,” he mumbled against John’s lips.

“And you expected differently?”

Sherlock slid his hand down John’s hip and curled it around John’s hard cock.  John groaned and tightened his fingers in Sherlock’s hair.  Sherlock bit down on John’s shoulder, then sucked his lips down on the spot of skin.

His hips thrust against Sherlock’s hand as he stroked him quickly.  His thumb circled the tip of his cock.  Sherlock increased the speed of his hand and he could feel it coming _soon_.

“God, Sherlock.”

He was so close, _right on the edge_ , God, yes, G–

Sherlock stopped.

John growled.  “You’re a fucking bastard, you know that?”  He flipped onto his other side as Sherlock laughed.

John kissed his way down Sherlock’s stomach, stroking down his legs.  His cheek brushed against Sherlock’s cock and he heard Sherlock groan.  He licked up the side of his shaft then slid it into his mouth. Sherlock’s breath hitched. His hands blindly found their way to John’s head, pushing it down.

John slid his hand up to Sherlock’s side and ghosted his fingers across it.  Sherlock writhed under him, choking out a laugh.  His hands slapped John’s hand away and John lifted his head away from Sherlock’s cock with a smirk. 

“Hands up,” he ordered.  Sherlock grunted and tried to push John’s head back down. John tickled his side again. “Up,” he said again, and this time Sherlock obeyed, grasping the headboard.  “Good.”  A devilish smile slipped on his face.

John licked the tip of Sherlock’s cock and curled his hand around the base.  His tongue circled his head and Sherlock bucked up against him.  “ _John_.” He swallowed Sherlock’s cock as far as he could, opening up the back of his throat.  He sucked his cheeks and swirled his tongue around his shaft. He could already feel Sherlock’s body tensing under his fingers.  He must have been waiting and ready for quite a while before John woke up.

John started moving his head, slowly at first, then faster as Sherlock’s hips began thrusting up into him.  Not much longer now.  In fact, just one thing he could do to really unwind him.

He moaned deeply, letting the vibrations ripple into Sherlock.  Sherlock came with a moan that made John’s cheeks flush deep red.  John did his best to swallow every bit that pulsed out, but some of the come dripped out the sides of his mouth.  He swiped his hand down, flicking up the dribbled come and licking it off his fingers.

He glanced up.  Sherlock was slumped against the sheets with his eyes closed. His hands still rested on the headboard and his chest heaved with deep breaths.  His cheeks were flushed, his hair wild.  The smooth lines of his chest and stomach glistened tantalizingly with sweat. John pressed a kiss to his thigh.

“We should get ready.”  He glanced at the clock.  “We’re going to be late as it is.”

Sherlock’s eyes flashed open, sparkling dangerously. “They can wait for us,” he said, springing up.  He tackled John down, hovering over him with a grin.  “Your turn.” His head delved down to John’s earlobe.

By the time Sherlock had thoroughly finished with him, they were running very late, indeed.

* * *

Greg swept Molly onto the dance floor, both of them grinning madly as the band launched into a slow ballad for their first dance as a married couple.  Sherlock saw John smile as Molly wrapped her arms around Greg’s neck as they swayed together.

Sherlock leaned back in his chair, his gaze sweeping over the small crowd of people who had gathered to celebrate, making some quick deductions about them, but something drew his eyes back to the happy couple dancing blissfully in each other’s arms. 

“He’s 10 years her senior,” Sherlock commented. “That’s good on him, if I understand correctly, but for Molly. . . .”

John rolled his eyes and squeezed Sherlock’s thigh. “It doesn’t matter. They love each other.” He shrugged.  “End of story.”

Sherlock slid his hand on top of John’s, curling his fingers around the back of his hand.  “But, why? Statistically, men die at an earlier age than women, and in Lestrade’s line of work that age lowers dramatically. Wouldn’t it be more logical for Molly to choose a younger husband?”

“Logical?” John echoed.  “Logic has nothing to do with it.  If it did, you never would have chosen this, and neither would I. I doubt the thought would ever have even occurred to us that we could be something more.”  He leaned in, his breath hot on Sherlock’s neck. “So, tell me which you prefer: logic or love?”

“Love,” Sherlock said immediately. He turned his head in to John’s. “Definitely love.”

John pressed his lips to the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, then pulled away with a smile.  He took a drink of the champagne set in front of him and sighed. He looked down the length of the long front table reserved for the bride, groom, best men, and maids of honor and grinned.

He nodded surreptitiously at Molly’s friends seated at the other end, the two maids of honor.  “Looks like we’ve got some admirers.”

Sherlock followed his gaze.  Indeed, the two pretty women were huddled together stealing glances at them while whispering and giggling.  Their faces were both slightly flushed – more from the champagne than being caught out, since their gazes didn’t waver one bit. John and Sherlock both threw them charming smiles.

“Shall we give them something they can _really_ whisper about?” Sherlock whispered to John, his voice suggestive.

“Oh, I certainly think so.”  John’s voice was low, conspiratorial. 

They stood, simultaneously smoothing out the suits Sherlock had insisted they both have custom-made, then had charged to Mycroft’s credit card.  Sherlock pointed to the end of the table where a man stood holding a tray with flutes of champagne balanced precariously on it.  “Champagne waiter.” 

They inched along behind the table, both of them watching the women’s eyes brighten the closer they came.  John nodded at them.  “Ladies,” he said, throwing them a disarming smile as Sherlock retrieved four flutes of champagne.  He handed them each one, then gave one to John.

They stayed there for a while, chatting up the ladies – whose names, they learned, were Steph and Tammy. What had originally started out as an example of how little people observed had turned into a kind of game of theirs, to see how many furtive glances and light touches they could get away with in front of others without them suspecting that they were a couple. It turned out that Steph and Tammy were either completely hammered, oblivious, or were just deluded in the idea that they were interested in them – or possibly a combination of all three. Despite their actions growing blatantly more obvious, the two women suspected nothing.  John’s fingers brushed against his hand. God, Sherlock didn’t think he’d ever met two more dimwittedly oblivious people than these women, and it made the game even more fun.  Sherlock could lay the charm on heavy when he wanted to, and John had always been a flirt. Within minutes it was easy to have them blushing with barely a word while he leaned into John more closely than social custom dictated for two men.  Sherlock smirked as the two women took no notice and slipped his arm around John’s waist, pulling him closer.  For God’s sake, these women really were hopeless.  Sherlock and John waited until another slow song came on, then John straightened.

“I’d love a dance,” he said wistfully. Tammy looked about ready to either faint or haul him onto the dance floor herself.  Perhaps a mixture of the two.

Before she could move, or even utter a sound, Sherlock slid his hand up John’s arm slowly.  “Dance with me?” he asked, offering his hand.

John grinned and took it.  “Thought you’d never ask, love.”  He took Sherlock’s flute from his hands and set both of theirs on the table.

Sherlock pulled him away as the women gaped after them, the flirtatious smiles wiped from their faces.  John and Sherlock laughed as they joined the other couples on the dance floor.  John reached his arms up to wind around Sherlock’s neck, and Sherlock circled his own around John’s waist.

“God, did you see their faces?” John murmured, throwing a glance back at them.  They were still whispering, but their expressions were much more taken aback now, rather than suggestive. 

“They were so oblivious, it was agonizing,” Sherlock agreed with a chuckle.

John rested his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock slid his hands up John’s back slowly.  “You called me ‘love’,” he said after a moment.  “You’ve never called me that before.”

John’s cheeks flushed.  He hadn’t meant to; it had just slipped out. “It just seemed right,” he said. “I won’t do it again, if it bothered you.”  But he hoped Sherlock wouldn’t mind.  Once he said it, he’d surprisingly liked it. 

“No!” Sherlock said quickly, licking his lips. “It was. . . . I liked it.”  John’s hand slipped up to twist in the ends of Sherlock’s hair as he felt Sherlock’s lips curl against his cheek, then he pulled back slightly. “Never figured we would be ones for pet names, though.  Shall I start calling you _darling_?” John was certain he’d never seen such a wicked expression on anyone’s face.

John shuddered.  “For God’s sake, Sherlock, don’t you dare.  It’s not that I like pet names.  It’s just you.”

Sherlock’s smile softened.  “It’s the same for me, John.  It’s just you.  You’re the exception. Always.”

He tightened his arms around John’s waist and rested his cheek against the top of his head.  He caught sight of Greg grinning suggestively at him across the dance floor and nodded in acknowledgment.  It seemed that the newlywed’s happiness was contagious though, because before he knew it, he was grinning, too.  A thought had popped into his head, one that had kept cropping up ever since Greg and Molly had announced their engagement, and that he had kept squashing down because of its ridiculousness.  But, strangely, it didn’t seem so ridiculous now, wrapped in the arms of the only person he had ever wanted, and the only person who had ever loved him like this.

“John,” he began, his voice curious. “What do you think?”

“Hmm?” John responded.  He sounded utterly content and peaceful.  “About what?  The ceremony? It was lovely.”

“No, not the ceremony.”  Sherlock huffed, rolling his eyes.  “Marriage.  What do you think?”

He felt the wheels in John’s brain whirring away as he considered the implications of such a question.  He had to know that Sherlock wasn’t just asking of his opinion of the matter.  So what was it about? He heard John’s sharp intake of breath when it clicked.

John lifted his head from his shoulder. “Are you asking me. . . .?”

Sherlock smiled wryly.  “That depends on your answer.”

“You said that marriage was an outdated affair. Antiquated and archaic are the exact words you used, I believe.”

He shrugged.  “I can’t change my mind?”

“Why?” John demanded.  “This is a real offer, right?  Not just an experiment, or a trick to see what I want?” Sherlock shook his head. “Then why?”

“You are the exception,” Sherlock said simply. “To everything.”

John broke into a smile.  “Ask me again,” he demanded.

Sherlock smiled back, feeling happier than he’d ever felt, but just as nervous.  Because, while he knew, from the look in John’s eyes, the tilt of his mouth, the creases in his forehead, that John was going to say yes, this was something so huge to ask of him.  Could John really commit his entire life to Sherlock?  Could Sherlock?

Well, the answer to that was a resounding yes.

Sherlock leaned in, lowering his voice. “What do you think?” With a devious twist in his smile, he added, “Could be dangerous.”

John smiled widely and licked his lips. “Well now,” he said quietly, “that’s too enticing and offer to say no to, isn’t it?”


End file.
